With or Without You
by animatedbrowneyes
Summary: McKinley High suffers a school shooting, bringing Quinn Fabray closer to Rachel Berry than she ever thought possible. AU.
1. Chapter 1

**AU after Journey. No Sunshine, Finn and Rachel broke up. Quinn/Rachel, Sam/Kurt, Brittany/Santana. Might be a little dark, inspired by "With Tired Eyes, Tired Minds, Tired Souls, We Slept" of One Tree Hill's third season, combined with my new love of Faberry. My first _Glee_ fic, so, enjoy!**

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* * *

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Quinn Fabray, recently reestablished Head Cheerio, walks slowly through the hallway, reluctantly appreciative of her status. In fear of her ire, students part like the Red Sea in her presence, allowing her a clear path, ensuring her advantage as HBIC of McKinley High—she is never late to class.

Quinn tosses her Algebra textbook in her locker and sighs. Junior year was..._lonely_.

In hindsight, Quinn decides that telling Coach Sylvester of Santana's summer _surgery_—if you could call it that—was probably not the wisest idea. All she gained was the old title, a strained relationship with her former best friend, and a clueless Brittany (or, more clueless than usual). Quinn regrets her decision. Being on top didn't magically create friends. Just enemies. And followers. Lots and lots of followers. All terrified, yet awed, followers. No _friends_.

Well, she has glee. It makes the loneliness lessen somewhat.

Quinn pauses, letting her gaze fix on Rachel Berry, who chats with a slightly bored Tina Cohen-Chang. Quinn frowns. Rachel has acquaintances, not friends. Fellow teammates, apathetic, easily irritable, impatient teammates that only put up with her for her voice. A voice absolutely destined for Broadway, Quinn thinks with a small, internal smile. Rachel knows it. Everyone does.

Quinn watches closely as Karofsky, chuckling, tosses a green slushie in Rachel's face. Again.

Her stomach twists in sympathy as Rachel dashes to the bathroom, determined not to break her 'showface' while Tina looks pitying but doesn't follow. Instead, Tina allows her attention to pass to a passing Mike Chang, happily departing together in the opposite direction. Quinn scoffs. She liked Tina better with Artie, but Tina unceremoniously dumped him over the summer for Mike.

Rachel reappears in English, offering Quinn a rigid smile as she sits, which Quinn returns.

The blonde didn't know exactly what to make of Rachel anymore. The diva had told Finn her secret last year, destroying Puck and Finn's friendship, Quinn's reputation, her relationship _with_ Finn, and nearly costing them Sectionals. But Rachel apologized, many times over in fact, and Quinn had forgiven her. Her pregnancy—(_Beth_, how she missed her)—had opened Quinn's eyes to the torment and insults she had once bestowed, and it felt wrong to repeat them this year.

She was a better person now. Or, she hoped she was. Gradually, the insults didn't immediately pop into her head. _Rachel_, instead of _Manhands_. Nothing else. Just the name. Which was a start. Sure, she and Rachel weren't exactly close, but they never were; Quinn doubts they could be. Quinn theorizes their relationship fluctuates between friendship, enmity, and something...else. Undefined, almost.

She was scared of that one. It was just _protectiveness_...like a concern, she assumes. She didn't want Rachel to be bullied anymore. But...she didn't want Rachel with Finn anymore either, and certainly not Puck. Luckily, Rachel and Finn had broken up recently, due to Finn's obsession with popularity (again) and Puck busy making eyes with Santana and any other Cheerio that paid him the time of day. Quinn wasn't hurt. They were friends, nothing romantic. Maybe that's how it always was, Quinn muses. Just a drunken mistake, an infatuation on his side, an emotional connection for life, and an adorable baby girl, living only several hours away with Rachel's biological mother.

Quinn sighs. She avoids anything Rachel related until free period, where Mr. Schue holds court.

Amazingly, all the members of glee managed to get the same study hall. Quinn suspects it was Ms. Pillsbury's doing. Until she started dating Carl the dentist. Quinn recalls in amusement and disdain at how much Mr. Schue acts like a teenager, Ms. Pillsbury with him. Must be the job.

"How are we all today?" Mr. Schue asks, smiling, when they've all wandered to the choir room.

"Lousy," Rachel mumbles, too low for anyone but Quinn, sitting surreptitiously beside her, to hear.

"Great," Kurt answers enthusiastically. "My new jacket is being shipped today."

Mercedes laughs.

"My day would get better if I had a slushie," Santana snickers. "Any takers? Berry?"

Rachel frowns and Quinn resists the insane urge to pat her arm. Instead, she scowls at Santana.

"They have a berry flavor?" Finn questions, and Quinn rolls her eyes.

Often, Quinn sincerely doubts her sanity for even dating Finn Hudson. Sure, he was cute and sweet, offering that dopey smile that would make any girl swoon. But, on the flip side, he was as dim as Brittany sometimes and had a manipulative streak. Quinn remembers with shame at Finn's attempt to get Rachel to rejoin glee, one of the days when she quit. In addition to Finn's lack of brains, he somehow managed to break Rachel's heart, probably the best girl at McKinley. Puck once admitted that Rachel understood him completely, just after spending only two hours with him. Rachel, forgiving as any priest, already letting her guard down around Quinn, who she seems to trust.

Rachel, who had began to plague her thoughts since early summer. _Oi_.

"—need to start brainstorming song ideas for Sectionals," Mr. Schue was saying. Quinn wonders if that's all he thinks of.

"A duet," Rachel suggests, her mood brightening. "We should definitely have—"

"Auditions for them, at least," Kurt interjects coolly. "To be fair."

Rachel nods, looking a little hurt. "That's what I was saying, Kurt."

Kurt says nothing, instead exchanging a superior glance with Mercedes, a fellow diva, and Sam, his boyfriend and a new student this year. Kurt had spotted him (in more ways than one) and persuaded the blond boy to join glee. Sam did, and is also on the football team without any protests. Go figure, they must approve of him. Sam doesn't know Rachel very much, so he just listens usually. Quinn likes him. He's goofy.

Kurt approves of their friendship. Mercedes does too, joking of how they look like perfect, stereotypical blonde siblings.

"Why are we talking about blankets?" Brittany wonders into the awkward silence.

"No, a _duet_, not a duvet," Santana explains kindly. Brittany still looks confused until Santana clarifies.

"A song for two, Britt. Not a blanket." Brittany eventually nods in understanding.

Quinn wishes uselessly that Santana could spare the same kindness to Rachel. It's unlikely.

Rachel looks withdrawn. Less enthusiastic, but still bossy, cheerful, and determined to succeed, just subdued. She has for awhile now, Quinn notices. Finn hurt Rachel, once again (how many times has it been?) and Rachel has no one else to talk to about it. Quinn can't pluck up the courage to voice the odd settling of protectiveness and affection for the girl in her head, so she holds her tongue until she's ready. Rachel doesn't have anyone to share her troubles with, and it's never bothered Quinn before.

Rachel's alone. She only has her dads to confide in, and that bothers Quinn. A lot.

"Any takers?" Mr. Schue asks.

The bell rings, effectively saving Quinn any more internal anger and frustration. Quinn keeps her apathetic expression, having mastered the quirk since freshman year. She can brew irritably over her own issues without it showing in her face. An ice queen, Santana had sneered. Exactly.

Quinn heads off to Chemistry, struggling to ignore questionable thoughts about brunette divas.

* * *

Jacob Ben Israel stands tall at the front of the school, inhaling a breath. This was it. His revenge.

Jacob had, as any other bottom feeder of the food chain would, secretly wondered what he would do to all of his bullies and adversaries, if given the chance. Hurt, maim...kill. Jacob bares his teeth. These people tortured him every day since he could remember. His hair, his religion, his appearance. Just being different brought ridicule.

Jacob hated school. He was an outcast. (It's always the outcasts. He's _that_ student.) He had all the signs, it was obvious—depression, lack of friends, constantly mocked. Combined with his ability to hold a grudge simply spelled out warnings, but nobody cared enough to notice.

His blog was his only outlet to express his anger, but gradually, it failed to appease him.

His insults were virtual, not tangible. They caused emotional devastation, not physical. Jacob wants his bullies to feel pain, like he had. Slushies, dumpster dives...it wasn't enough. They deserve more pain, he decides. They symbolize everything wrong with high school. Best years of your life, Jacob sneers. Right. Your life must be worse later if you get tormented as a teenager.

Jacob stares at the entrance, distantly seeing flashes of red and black. Cheerios and jocks.

They were his main targets. Next, glee club. If possible, of course. He has a lot to do.

Jacob didn't have a specific reason to hurt the kids in glee, but they should be on his side. They should be his friends, standing together as a collective force and protecting each other against Karofsky and the like. No, instead, they believed themselves to be noteworthy, of a higher degree than him. Some were even friends with idiots like Noah Puckerman or sluts like Santana Lopez.

Jacob glowers scornfully. This was his chance to stand out. His chance to make a mark.

And if it was a mark in infamy and despair and death? So be it. He would be _remembered_.

McKinley High has never had a school shooting. Jacob will change that.

As anger and loathing roars in his ears, his shoes scuff against the cement in his march.

Adjusting his backpack stockpiled with stolen firearms, Jacob takes another breath.

_Showtime_.

* * *

Quinn is walking to her class when she hears the first shot. Blind panic clouds her normally level head as students begin to scream in absolute mayhem, the sounds reverberating off the walls. Quinn can't move—she doesn't register everything immediately, _what_ was going on—and she hears more shots. _CRACK_. _CRACK_. She blinks. A disgruntled, furious Santana locks the door to a teacher bathroom, locking the two of them away from the hysteria.

"Try not to stand there like an _idiot_ next time," Santana fumes. "Could have gotten killed, Q!"

"I—I'm...sorry," she chokes out, and Santana sighs, crossing her arms tightly.

"Pay attention, Quinn. You're the only one I could find in thirty seconds," Santana explains.

Quinn realizes the hint in Santana's voice. Quinn is the only available friend in the vicinity. Even if they were at odds, Santana still needs to secure her safety. Quinn feels her earlier annoyance with Santana fly out the window and camaraderie return(this was a life-or-death situation, after all).

"It's further away," she breathes. Quinn copies the movement, pressing her ear to the wood.

"Where's Brittany?" Quinn asks, and sees Santana wince miserably.

"I don't know," Santana whispers, looking more vulnerable than Quinn has ever seen. The Latina's dark eyes brim with tears, and Quinn pulls her instinctively into a hug, muttering words of comfort. Santana allows herself a few moments to really cry and let go, before she replaces the walls and coldness around her heart. Quinn realizes only now how much Santana truly cares for Brittany. Genuine love. The blonde is probably lost and confused, Quinn thinks, horrified.

"I don't have my phone. What, what if she—I don't know, Brittany's just—oh my god, Quinn, she might be dead. Brittany can't die, I won't be able to...I need to go find her, I have to," Santana gasps. Quinn holds her tighter.

"No."

"Quinn, _please_—"

Quinn's arms aren't comfort anymore; a cage locks Santana in place.

"You aren't leaving anytime soon. If I stay, so do you," Quinn growls, and the two fall silent.

* * *

Rachel shoved her textbooks into her locker, trying to fight the constant melancholy she was experiencing. Summer had been fun, spending her days with her fathers, practicing, and lounging in the sun. Rachel's eyes admire her new haircut (bangs, how nineties, she thinks fondly) when she hears a smattering of loud cracks, and her heart climbs into her throat. Jacob Ben Israel is yelling, brandishing a gun in the air and firing randomly. Students scream.

_Lockdown, lockdown_, Figgins is bellowing into the loudspeaker.

Already, several motionless bodies litter the floor, oozing pools of blood. Rachel's mouth parts in surprise and terror while she stands, frozen, as Jacob turns his attention to her end of the hallway, takes aim, and fires his gun. A yelp of pain escapes her lips as she stumbles to the floor, her hands flailing to her jean-clad leg as a burn flares up, spreading a shockwave up her body. Rachel squeaks in distress as Jacob stands near her, an odd, contemplative look adorning his face. Rachel tries to focus as her mind shrieks, _this shouldn't happen, I was shot. _Rachel can't help but compile statistics about recovery.

"I hope it's quick for you, Rachel," he declares uncaringly. "I'm sorry about all this."

"You should be," she blurts out, gritting her teeth as another flash of pain burns her limbs.

"I should be?" Jacob repeats, furious. "These jocks should be! They should be sorry for hurting me for years! They brought this on themselves, Rachel, you know it. Jocks and Cheerios tortured me, and today, I get to return the favor...and to their parents, for bringing up kids like that."

"Y-you could have transferred," Rachel wheezes. Jacob shakes his head.

"No. It would be exactly the same. I thought you were different, I thought you were just like me. Until you started becoming friends with Puck and Brittany. Even Santana accepts you."

"Santana hates me," Rachel argues uselessly.

"She doesn't," Jacob spat. "She won't slushie you anymore. You just haven't noticed."

"Jacob—"

"And don't get me started on Quinn Fabray," Jacob barks. "She likes you too, even though she tortured you for years, don't you remember?"

"Quinn's a good person," Rachel croaks.

"Sure, she had excellent intentions when she slushied you," Jacob snaps.

"Stop this," Rachel begs. "Stop it all...just don't hurt anyone else."

"No one asked to stop the bullying on me, did they?" Jacob asks rhetorically, cold as ice.

Rachel simply stares at the boy she's known her entire life, one of the few in Lima with her religion, wondering if Jacob knew he would do this at five years old, ten years old, or even before high school. Did he decide this ages ago, or was in a spur of the moment decision?

"I'm done with it," Jacob adds.

Jacob steps away, and Rachel closes her eyes, but a shot doesn't come. Jacob had left.

Rachel blinks rapidly and forces herself to a sit up. Her shoes and left leg are drenched in blood, and a blindly staring victim sits close by, his glassy eyes boring into the floor. Rachel feels the urge to vomit as she realizes her problem—Jacob could come back at any time and decide to finish the job. Her gaze finds the library door, and slowly drags herself toward the double doors.

* * *

"It's been awhile," Santana mumbles.

"I know."

"I want to leave."

"I know," Quinn murmurs, sliding to the floor. Santana sits down beside her.

"I miss her," Santana whispers. Quinn nods sympathetically.

"You really love her, don't you?"

Santana was silent for a few moments, her eyes imploring and sad.

"Yes," she admits uncomfortably.

"I'm sure she knows that," Quinn assures gently, but Santana shakes her head in despair.

"No, I've told her...I've said that sex isn't dating, and she seemed to get it. But sometimes, you know, I've seen these sad faces she gets when we can't hangout, when I'm going to meet up with Puck...I didn't want to face it, my feelings, and I don't know if I'll ever be able to tell her."

Quinn wraps a soothing arm around Santana's waist, letting her friend cry.

She saw how true Santana's words are—how the two Cheerios acted so much like a couple it surprised others at school to hear that they weren't together, especially with the not-so-secret hooking up and even the pinkie holding. All that held Brittany and Santana apart was Santana's reluctance, and all it took was a disaster like this for Santana to face the truth. There wasn't Brittany without Santana, and vice-versa. When Santana finally surrendered to the idea that she and Brittany should have been together all this time, she couldn't find the blonde and tell her so.

"She'll be okay, I know it," Quinn offers. "She's too friendly and cheerful to die. She's got half the school pulling for her, don't forget that," Quinn adds and Santana chokes a watery laugh.

Santana is calmer, but her eyes stray longingly to the door.

"Just a little longer," Quinn beseeches, ignoring the safer choice in favor of Santana's desperation. _Screw lockdown codes_, Quinn adds silently.

Santana brightens gratefully.

"You're looking for someone too," Santana guesses. "Who?"

Quinn doesn't answer.

* * *

Finn leaps for the floor when the sounds reach his ears, trained and hardwired by endless hours of Halo. Puck had done the same on his right, and his Algebra class was currently huddled on the far wall, all sitting Indian-style, out of sight of the doorway, as they had learned every single year with the same lockdown drill. The room was mostly quiet, a few whispers here and there.

_A lockdown_, Finn thinks uneasily. _And it's real._

"I wonder who did it," Puck whispers. Finn shrugs.

"I think it was JewFro," Mercedes mutters on Puck's left, showing a text from Tina.

**JBI went kamikaze. Artie and I (awkward) are in Sylvester's office with her, Mr. Schue and Ms. Pillsbury—some lecture she was saying about irritating sexual tension at the workplace. Whatever. Mr. Schue called 911 just a little while ago. Where are you? — T**

"She's stuck with Sylvester?" Puck hisses. "That sucks."

"Kurt, Sam, and Mike are in the boys locker room, with everyone who has gym," Mercedes reads off the screen, her voice hushed. "Brittany is with Becky, they managed to get out," she cheers quietly. Puck and Finn grin with her in relief, until they count up the ones missing.

"Where's Quinn?" Puck wonders, stone-faced.

"Or Rachel?" Finn questions.

"I haven't heard from any of them," Mercedes admits regretfully. "Sorry."

"How many is that?"

"Rachel, Quinn, and Santana haven't replied, so three are MIA. I'm scared," Mercedes mumbles.

"I have to find Rachel," Finn says. "Even if we aren't together anymore."

"You aren't leaving," Puck snaps. "No one's playing hero. Besides," he offers bravely to Mercedes, "if something epic happens, I've got your back, Jones."

Mercedes returns a quivering, grateful smile.

* * *

"What's happening, Brittany?"

Becky breaks Brittany out of her daze, and Brittany peers down at the pint-sized cheerleader.

"I don't know," she answers honestly, and Becky sighs in exasperation. The parking lot was filled to capacity with police cars, ambulances, fire trucks, and SWAT mobiles, and distressed parents, huddled in groups. Brittany watches as a mother mouths prayers, crossing herself repeatedly. A police officer had already tried questioning Brittany, who failed to understand the inquiry. Tina's text had confused her—why would it matter if she was outside? What was happening inside?

"_God zij dank_, Brittany!" A voice cries, and Brittany whirls around into her father's arms.

"Daddy," she greets, who regards her carefully, and finally exhales in relief.

"How are you? I just heard about the shooting," Mr. Pierce says.

"Shooting?"

"Yes, Brittany, the shooting, the reason you're standing the parking lot," Mr. Pierce answers, familiar with Brittany's tendency to be slow on the uptake.

"Where's Santana?"

Mr. Pierce looks sad. "I don't know. She hasn't been checked off on the list..."

Brittany falls silent, her eyebrows furrowing in confusion. Santana had to be okay, she always is.

_"I'll always take care of you, Britt, you know that?" Santana had said, smiling indulgently._

"I have to find Santana," Brittany mumbles, but Mr. Pierce catches her arm.

"Brittany, it's too dangerous. You stay here," her father orders, and softens his tone at her rapidly tearing eyes. "Sweetie, you're not allowed to walk into the school. Someone has a gun, and they could seriously hurt you. It's just not safe. Santana will—"

"I love her, Daddy, I don't want to just stand here!"

"You aren't leaving, Brittany Susan."

Brittany recognizes the warning in his words, and grudgingly surrenders. "I hate you."

"At least you're hating me alive, sweetie," Mr. Pierce remarks as Brittany grimaces.

* * *

"Buffy's better," Quinn protests lamely. Santana huffs.

"No way. Buffy's an uptight snob. Faith had a tough life and worked through it admirably."

"Yeah, after killing somebody. Besides, Buffy is blonde. I think I know what I'm talking about."

"Right, she's stupid. Like dating Riley," Santana counters irritably.

"He was supportive!"

"This game is stupid!" Santana snaps back. "I'm done stalling, I want to find Brittany now."

"I won't stop you, S," Quinn sighs, as her mind screams obstinacies. _Foolish, reckless, unsafe!_

Santana looks surprised at the lack of argument until Quinn elaborates.

"I'm terrified, S. I'm terrified that as soon as you walk out that door, you'll get shot, just like the others. You're one of my best friends," Quinn chokes, "and I feel like I'm condemning you to death if I just let you go past me. You don't even know if she made it out yet."

"She's worth it," Santana retorts gruffly. "If you don't let me go, I'll punch your lights out."

"Then I guess I'll have to go with you," Quinn challenges. Santana stares blankly.

"I know you care about me and Britt, but—"

"Yeah, I do. You guys aren't getting yourselves killed...er, alone. I'm going," Quinn barks.

Santana grins, unlocking the catch. "Okay, okay. You can be the martyr, I'll be the heroine."

"Out the door, bitch," Quinn grumbles, shoving her friend forward through the door.

* * *

Emma hears Jacob faintly, searching for David Karofsky, one of his antagonizers. She holds her breath for awhile, her face paling until she's certain the boy is gone. Behind her, Will paces anxiously, Sue eyes the windows, Tina sits near Artie, texting, and Artie speaks quietly with her.

Will catches Artie's worry. "What's up?"

"We've located nearly all of glee club, Mr. Schue," Artie explains, adjusting his glasses.

Will winces at _nearly_.

Tina gestures to her cell phone. "Everyone except Quinn, Rachel, and Santana, are safe."

Will's heart sinks, and Emma tosses a sympathetic glance over her shoulder.

"Buck up, William," Sue chastises, frowning. "Stay focused."

"Three of my kids are missing, Sue," Will glares. "I'm allowed to be a little upset."

"There are dead students, Will," Sue sneers. "Stop gravitating around your select few."

"What about your select few, Sue? This is all your fault!"

"My fault?" Sue storms, her eyes flashing angrily. "A boy who decides to kill others is my fault?"

"The precious hierarchy you encouraged, over and over again," Will fumes, ignoring Emma's frown. "It started this whole thing. The Cheerios and jocks on the penthouse, right? You said it yourself! They rule the roost, while Jacob and kids like him are on the ground floor—did you seriously not suspect something this to happen? Jacob is just like the other shooters in the United States. A social pariah, an outcast, all because your cheerleaders and football players made him that way. And now, he's snapped. I hope you're happy, Sue. Your hierarchy really, really works."

Sue grimaces with something akin to guilt, and doesn't reply.

"I'm sure Jacob's gone by now," Emma murmurs.

"I suggest the windows," Artie proposes, Tina nods in agreement. Sue huffs.

"That draws attention, Wheels. Do you want Jacob to come back?"

"We're staying here," Will interjects firmly. "The police will sort it out."

* * *

"Brittany?" Santana whisper-shouts. "_Brittany?_"

"Be quiet," Quinn mouths frantically, flailing her arms. Santana nods, but her foot slips across the floor with a loud squeak, sending the cheerleader sprawling. Quinn seizes Santana's shoulder, keeping her upright and preventing her fall. Quinn sees the dark smear of blood staining the floor and Santana's sneakers and her stomach churns with disgust and horror. Santana stands motionless in Quinn's arms, her eyes fixed on a blonde girl, still and dressed in a Cheerio uniform, slumped against a locker and her face turned away from them. Quinn literally feels Santana's heart pick up and forcefully keeps her in place.

"_You'll_ stay," Quinn hisses harshly. "I'll check."

"But—_Quinn_—please—"

"No."

Quinn restrains a thrashing Santana until a pitiful, despaired squeak escapes Santana's mouth. "Fine," she murmurs slowly, defeated and mournful. "You...you do it."

Quinn loosens her grip, and Santana softly begs for her not to lie about the answer, because she has to know. Quinn nods and checks around them, and hesitantly shuffles to the inanimate girl. Quinn kneels, inspecting the body. A murky stain coats the uniform at the chest, too dark to match the red polyester. Quinn swallows her bile as she lays a hand on icy flesh, and after ten seconds, no pulse appears. Quinn shakes her head, and brushes the girl's hair from her face.

Santana inhales a nervous, anticipating breath...three beats pass.

It's Abby McDonald—_not Brittany_, Quinn thinks selfishly—a jumper on the Cheerios.

"Not her," Quinn declares quietly. Santana collapses against the wall in near-paralyzing relief.

Quinn reaches to the eyes, and gently closes them with her fingers.

"It's Abby," Quinn mutters.

"She was good," Santana remarks. "I just...I spoke with her yesterday..."

This death and ones around her in the hallway slowly sink in, and Quinn just wants to escape from this nightmare. How could this happen? This morning she was worried about pulling her ponytail too tight. Now, past one-o'clock, she's afraid for her own life and those of her friends. Shouldn't this happen somewhere else? Quinn wonders.

"She's got two twin brothers," Santana informs Quinn sadly. "They're only eight years old."

"Let's look elsewhere," Quinn decides shortly, taking Santana's wrist and tugging her away.

* * *

Hiram Berry paces in quick, hasty strides, a stoic and silent Leroy two feet away, leaning against their car. Hiram had always been the nervous one, fearing a day like this would come when Rachel entered school. His day had been uneventful, simply waiting on his expected promotion at the hospital (due any day now) and during his lunch hour, he received a call from Leroy. Leroy, a psychologist, works closer to McKinley and called Hiram as soon as the news broke.

_"A boy has taken McKinley hostage," Leroy had stammered. "It's a lockdown."_

The parking lot is a swarm of police officers, a scarce few of school personnel, and dozens upon dozens of frightened parents, conversing with each other and throwing furtive glances at the doors, as if their child will run out unscathed and safe. The Chief of Police had complied a list of students to review, a secretary having drawn up the records from a laptop provided by an officer. Seven students were absent, either sick, skipping, or on vacation.

One hundred and twenty four students managed to flee at the first shot.

Eight hundred and sixty nine kids remained inside.

Hiram lost count at the amount of times he looked to the front doors.

"It was that pale Jewish kid," a hockey player gasps at a scowling officer. "Jacob...something."

Jacob Ben Israel, Hiram remembers. His family frequented the synagogue.

Hiram's eyes track a woman—probably a parent just arriving—striding purposefully from her SUV, right up to the barricades. Her hair flies unchecked in the wind, and her steps are confident and furious. Hiram is reminded wistfully of Rachel and he hears the woman start yelling.

"My daughter's in there, you slack jawed idiot!"

The guard fumes. "Listen, lady, tons of kids are in there—"

"I want to know where she is, moron, and I want to know now!"

"Honestly, ma'am, all these parents feel exactly the—"

"How on earth did you become a police officer? Did you even _graduate_?"

"That's enough," the guard roars. "Step back or I'll have you restrained."

The woman turns her head sideways in her rage, and Hiram freezes. No, it couldn't...Shelby Corcoran? Rachel's surrogate mother? Shouldn't she still be in New York City?

"Shelby?" Leroy calls, having recognized her too. Shelby stiffens, and steps in their direction.

Her posture changes immediately, to guilty and nervous, and Hiram eyes her closely.

"Hiram, Leroy...it's good to see you," she mumbles, turning red.

"How did you know Rachel was here?" Leroy asks bluntly.

Shelby flinches regretfully. "I'm sorry...I broke the contract."

"How so?" Leroy demands.

"I figured out who Rachel was...I saw her at Sectionals. I used to coach Vocal Adrenaline at Carmel High. I wanted to meet her so badly, but I couldn't legally...I didn't actually break the contract myself," she adds quickly, "she learned who I was, and she sought me out with some pushing from a student. I missed her all these years, and I wanted—want to be part of her life. I'm sorry, I just don't want to lose her, especially now. Don't take her away after today, I—"

"Shelby!" Leroy cuts her off, and the ex-coach quiets obediently.

"Although you manipulated the agreement to your own ends, it's okay. She came to you, in the end. You didn't do anything illegal."

Shelby stares, hope blossoming in her gaze. Leroy glances at Hiram, who dutifully nods.

"We'll let Rachel know you exactly the way you want. But you can't have custody of her."

Shelby is undeterred. "She can visit me?"

"Yes," Hiram sighs. "She has a right to."

Shelby smiles her appreciation, and both men smile wearily back before all three sober.

"She's still inside, along with most of her glee club," Leroy mutters.

"Have their parents spoken with you?" Shelby inquires. Hiram nods.

"Yes. Judy Fabray is over there," he says quietly, pointing to a group of three adults, "with Carole Hudson and Burt Hummel. Further down is Nicholas Pierce and his daughter, Brittany, the only one in glee to get out immediately. Next to her is Cristina Lopez."

"Quinn's still inside," Shelby reaffirms, looking troubled, her mind switching to the blonde baby with a sitter at home. "I should talk to Judy."

* * *

"Santana," Quinn urges. "We need to find cover now. This guy could be anywhere."

"I know. All these classrooms are locked from the inside...what does Brittany have this period? I think History...near Sylvester's office...think _she's_ still kicking?"

"Don't joke about that, S," Quinn admonishes. "And yes, probably."

"I have to go look," Santana says uncomfortably. It's a draw—Santana will continue to look for Brittany until she succeeds, while Quinn wants shelter. Quinn falters.

"Okay," Quinn murmurs. Santana sees the desperate, conflicted emotion in Quinn's features. Santana yanks Quinn into a suffocating, anxious hug, and both don't know if this is really the last time. Santana smirks for good measure, hiding her worry and apprehension behind a cool mask.

"Try to be a worthy HBIC if I don't make it, will you?"

"You too," Quinn retorts, and both offer a nod and head in opposite directions.

* * *

Quinn finds herself on the second floor, and several bodies lie in odd positions against lockers, some on their stomachs, and others lying face up, frozen and immobile. Quinn's absently reminded too much of horror movie and averts her eyes, spotting a familiar locker. Rachel's.

Her mouth drops open as she sees Rachel's open locker, books tossed to the ground, and a pool of blood near her feet, where a large smear traces from the lockers to the library doors. Quinn doesn't see Rachel anywhere, and with some trepidation, decides to follow the trail. She inches enough space in the door to slid through, and pulls it shut behind her. The library is empty. Quinn's eyes find the stain, and her feet step beside it, as if following a breadcrumb trail.

She's about to inspect the floor where it stops when a hand flies out, seizing her leg and with surprising agility, tugging her to her knees and a tight grip blocks any scream she could emit. She blinks, and wants to throw up at the sight before her. A terrified, weeping Rachel Berry releases her hands from Quinn, drawing her knees to her chest. Quinn examines Rachel, seeing pale skin against a normally tan complexion, red rimmed eyes, and further down, a bloodstained leg. Rachel's hands aren't still; they shake and constantly dart to her wound, as if to suppress pain. Rachel had been shot, Quinn realizes in shock. And she dragged herself from her locker.

Rachel's eyes, once bright, are dim and hidden behind her (admittedly adorable) bangs. Quinn observes in silence as Rachel grits her teeth and exhales deeply.

"Rachel," Quinn whispers, struggling to comprehend that Rachel was hurt. Rachel was shot, someone she knew could die today, right in front of her.

"Hi, Quinn."


	2. Chapter 2

**Okay, fifty reviews in a span of mostly forty eight hours? Cheesus! Thank you all so much, and I'm glad you like it. I literally squealed. Seriously, I did.**

**Several things:**

**1) This is not the end chapter. Looks sort of like that, but it's not.**

**2) I'll probably update once a week, if possible. I was trying to hold out until Saturday but it's a day off and I couldn't wait to post this. Impatient. :)**

**3) Amanda is played by Hilarie Burton. Ah, irony at its finest.**

**4) Forgot a disclaimer. Own nothing mentioned in this fic, just for entertainment purposes, yada yada yada. **

**5) Not sure if I got procedures with the police and SWAT team correctly, but it sounds kind of right.**

**And finally, Glee was awesome. 'Nuff said (well, if Karofsky is so mean to Kurt because he's afraid of who he is, then maybe Quinn can too...). ;)**

**Enjoy!**

* * *

Inside the bustling dining hall of Princeton University, a pretty blonde student sits chatting with her two friends over lunch. All three are pre-law, and despise their workload, but, in the end, they hope to make lives of future clients better as lawyers. The blonde technically _was _coerced into this school by her despotic father, but, she does want to dedicate her time to others. The blonde stops to check her cell phone, listening to a new voicemail, and chokes on her drink, while her friends stop speaking and question her.

"Mandy, are you okay?"

Amanda Fabray nods hastily, and presses the number four, repeating the message.

_Quinn's stuck inside a lockdown_, Judy had shrieked. _There's a shooter on the loose in McKinley._

[Beep. Repeat message.]

"Mandy?"

Amanda pushes her tray away and digs through her bag for her keys.

"I've got to get home," she mumbles frantically. "My little sister—school shooting, I..."

Amanda stumbles blindly from the table, leaving her sympathetic friends behind and dashes to the airport, just several miles away by car and books a direct, one-way flight to Akron, Ohio, unable to stop her hands from shaking as she sits in her seat on the departing airplane, thoughts entirely concentrated on her younger sister.

* * *

Santana moves quickly and efficiently, hardly sparing a breath nor breaking stride in her search. She hasn't seen the shooter, and wonders if that's good news or bad news. She can feel her heart, beat for beat against her ribcage, and for the thousandth time, curses the lockdown codes. Yes, they were effective—she can see no one, nor hear any noise. It certainly keeps the idea of a deserted school, but does not help her search for Brittany. She had to find her. If something happened...

Santana Lopez doesn't get scared. She isn't frightened of anything, except for Brittany. She's afraid that this day will end with Brittany lost to her for good.

Santana was passing by Sue's office when a door squeaks, and she stiffens.

"_Santana!_" A voice hisses, and catching her breath, she looks left to see a beckoning, white-faced Ms. Pillsbury, eyes wider than usual (if that's even possible, Santana thinks).

Santana hesitates but acquiesces, hurrying inside, and hearing Ms. Pillsbury close the door.

"Nice to see you, Lopez."

Santana finds a proud yet somber Coach Sylvester, a grim Mr. Schuester, and two jittery, nervous glee clubbers—Tina and Artie. All eyes flicker automatically to the door and back, and Santana sits down. Ms. Pillsbury stands post at the door, her ear returning to the wood to listen for any noise.

"Coach," Santana acknowledges at last.

"What idiotic part of your brain decided that wandering the halls during a lockdown was a logical idea?" Sue asks pointedly, as if she actually cared. Santana grinds her teeth.

"I'm looking for Brittany," she answers in defiance. Sue sneers.

"Well, she's fine. You will stay here. No need for one of my Cheerios to get her head blown off."

"I don't think so," Santana snaps stubbornly. "I have to find her."

"It's too dangerous, Santana," Mr. Schue interrupts. "Sue's right."

"This is bullshit—" Santana yells before Tina clamps a warning hand over her mouth.

"You aren't bringing _him_ back here," Tina snarls uncharacteristically, abandoning her usual calm demeanor under the tense circumstances. "Quiet."

Santana smacks her hand away, not intimidated in the least, and sulks. "I won't stay here forever."

"Yes, you will," Sue remarks rudely. "If you try to open that door past Esther over there" —Emma scowls— "I'll have to subdue you in a headlock and citizen's arrest."

"Have you heard from Rachel or Quinn?" Artie asks. "They're the two we don't know about."

Santana sighs. "I was with Quinn for awhile in a teacher's bathroom, but I convinced her to leave with me so I could look for Brittany. We found a cheerleader, by the way," she adds nastily to Sue, "Abby McDonald. Then we split up near the third floor stairs and went in opposite directions."

"You both left safety in a lockdown and then split up with a gunman walking around school?" Will exclaims quietly, aghast. "I can't believe this."

"For the last time," Santana growls, "Brittany is important to me, I had to."

"Enough to risk another friend?" Will demands.

Santana deflates, feeling as if someone slapped her. How could...she didn't even think. Quinn could be dead by now. She looks away from Will, too contrite to face him.

Tina texts while Artie turns to Santana. "Didn't we tell you? Brittany's been outside with her dad."

Santana just about weeps in relief at the news of Brittany's safety, and lets herself relax for several minutes before worrying about Quinn again.

"Who did this?" Santana asks, when she's recovered completely.

Sue grimaces. "Jacob."

"_JewFro?_" Santana hisses, disgusted. "Wow, I'm not even surprised."

Emma tuts in disapproval. "You know, Santana, that kind of behavior instigated this."

"Please don't antagonize my Cheerio, Eleanor," Sue chides, aloof. Emma rolls her eyes.

Santana feels guilt gnawing in her chest and tries to forget her shame. Yes, she did bully Jacob too. A lot. More than she wished to remember.

"Who else is safe, Artie?" Santana questions softly.

Artie leans closer to tell her.

* * *

Kurt Hummel sits silently on a bench in the boys locker room, where his gym class is cramped inside. Mike leans on a locker a foot away, while Sam sits beside Kurt.

_Kurt?_

_Dad, I'm fine_, Kurt replies, while Sam reads the conversation over his shoulder.

_Thank God. You have no idea how good that sounds_, Burt says.

_My gym class is the locker room—we all ran at the first shot._

_Have you heard from any of your friends? Some of their parents are close._

Kurt answers with a list of all known glee members. Sam frowns, upset at the news.

_Who does that leave? _Burt wonders.

_Rachel Berry and Quinn Fabray_, Kurt says. _None of us been able to make contact._

_All right, that's better than nothing. Hang in there, pal. Check back in with me in twenty minutes._

Kurt shuts his phone and leans into Sam's shoulder. In all of his days in school, he never imagined that a shooting would be part of his high school experience. It always happened to other schools, never yours. You sympathize and move on, but it doesn't sink in until it actually happens to you. Kurt could see awful scenarios, gruesome images of a bleeding Quinn and a screaming Rachel, and he wants to vomit. They were currently AWOL, and Kurt fears the worst.

Sam won't say or do anything now, as the football team, some present in the class with them, although removed (grudgingly) of judgement about Sam because he was an excellent player to their horrendously poor record, they wouldn't tolerate the two together in front of them. Instead, Sam just offers silent support.

Kurt has already lost his mother at a young age. He doesn't want to lose his friends as well.

* * *

"Santana showed up," Mercedes declares quietly. "She's with Tina and Artie."

"Good," Puck says, and Finn nods. "Anything from Quinn or Rachel?"

"No, unfortunately."

"Wait, how did Santana get there?" Finn realizes, frowning. "She was walking around?"

Puck curses under his breath. "She's an idiot. I didn't think she was that stupid."

"Well, she did say that she 'had to' because Brittany's important to her," Mercedes says slyly.

Puck growls. "She better show the whole school just how much. I'm sick of her hiding it."

"I know. It's _so_ obvious."

"At least we know they're safe," Finn adds, optimistic as ever. "That leaves Rachel and Quinn."

"God, I hope they're okay," Puck mumbles fervently.

* * *

Quinn sits beside Rachel, letting the brunette lean on her slightly. Rachel hums lowly.

"What song is that?" Quinn whispers.

"'Tonight'," Rachel murmurs, her eyes closing. Quinn panics but Rachel assures her she's all right.

"_West Side Story_, right?"

"Yes, Maria sings it."

Quinn checks Rachel, seeing the blood seeping through Rachel's jeans and flinches.

"Does it hurt?" She asks rhetorically, immediately feeling stupid.

"A little," Rachel answers. "I feel numb, almost."

Quinn isn't used to this Rachel—defeated, barely talking, and _humming_, not singing. Rachel looks so tired and sad and Quinn feels her heart clench uncomfortably at the sight. The weird feelings from early summer and this morning surface, and all Quinn wants is to protect Rachel from everything, shield her from it all. She wants to apologize, just say sorry for all the things Quinn has done to her in the past, but she knows that Rachel has already forgiven her, oddly enough. Quinn suddenly gasps.

"Wait, wait, _wait!_"

"What?" Rachel inquires drowsily, blinking at the abrupt urgency in Quinn's exclamation.

"Take off your sweater!"

"This is from my grandmother!" Rachel insists. Quinn scowls until Rachel grumbles her defeat.

"Fine." Rachel raves, no doubt preparing a long-winded speech, pulling the fabric over her head, leaving her hair a tangled mess. Quinn snatches it from her hands without apology and rolls it up, twisting the sweater until it's taut and finally circling it around Rachel's leg, just below the knee but above the wound. She creates a tight knot.

"A makeshift tourniquet," Rachel nods grudgingly. "Impressive."

"I saw it on _Lost_," Quinn admits, embarrassed. Rachel laughs.

"It's intended to stop the blood, but I don't know if it'll still work," Rachel explains.

"Please refrain as if you're speaking from your deathbed," Quinn begs, surprising herself. Her brain questions the action, her heart avoids the truth. She doesn't want Rachel to die. She doesn't want to see Rachel die right in front of her, and what's worse, Rachel seems to accept it, like she's accepting a bad critique of her singing pitch.

Rachel has realized the probability of her survival, Quinn won't.

"I'm close to it," Rachel mutters.

"Stop it!" Quinn snaps angrily. "You can't just give up, Rachel. Stay awake, keep going."

"I won't be able to," Rachel warns, bitter. "Sooner or later—"

"This is just crap," Quinn interrupts as Rachel looks at her incredulously. "You sang to me last year, remember? _Keep Holding On_? You promised to support me. Now, I want to support you," she says, determination and anger strengthening her words, "and you're just giving up because you're tired. Hundreds of people have survived disasters worse than this. Hell, students have survived shootings like this, Rachel. Don't let this stop you. The Rachel Berry I know wouldn't quit—she'd be annoying and keep going strong just to prove she could. You said yourself that you're going to be a star once you get out of Lima. How can you be a _star_ on Broadway if you're dead?"

Rachel's mouth opens and closes in shock, and she can't find a reply. Quinn sighs.

"Please, for me, don't give up."

Rachel is silent for a bit, and Quinn allows herself an internal congratulatory fist pump.

(It was her first inspirational, important pep-talk...speech, thing.)

"Okay," Rachel sighs pensively. "I won't let this beat me. For you."

Quinn doesn't remember being _this_ relieved and triumphant in her entire life.

* * *

Chief Andrew Sullivan of Lima Police keeps an eye on McKinley High, while a frazzled secretary operates a laptop, after been ordered to pull up the security footage of the school. Sullivan has never had to deal with a school shooting before—he assumes Lima is too quiet of a town for such things. Except for this one kid who started the whole affair. Sullivan just wants this to end decently. Lieutenant Abrams stands stoic beside him. Both wish Jacob Ben Israel was never bullied.

A couple news stations hover like wasps, interviewing parents and agreeable officers. Cameras are fixed on different angles of the school, providing coverage for the reports.

The secretary can't access the video feed. Sullivan signals Captain Campbell, who nods.

Abrams is more worried, Sullivan notices. His wheelchair bound son is inside, and Abrams worries for his safety. But, they exchange text messages, so he is appeased slightly. Sullivan orders Abrams to address the parents, as the SWAT team prepares themselves nearby.

"Listen up," Abrams calls, and every parent focuses their attention on him with anxious eyes. "The suspect has held the school for just over two hours. We've been securing the perimeter and all entrances, and we'll begin to send men inside. This boy, Jacob, hasn't made a move for fifty minutes, and he's more than likely on an emotionally compromised search for victims, not a planned attack. He's angry, that's why he's doing this. He's been bullied by other students, and all of you must know this."

Some parents look confused, others look guilty and ashamed. They know how their children act.

"We will begin to send the SWAT team inside, and they'll start looking for him. Please stop irritating the officers," he adds to a scowling Shelby Corcoran, who crosses her arms, "they're just trying to work and keep everyone safe. Do not attempt to move past the barricades, they are placed there for a reason. No one is to play hero. Thank you."

Shelby grumbles under her breath and Judy Fabray chuckles, strained but genuine.

"It's all right," Judy assures her. "No one will remember _that_ today."

Shelby and Judy stand in companionable silence for over a half hour, both fretting over their daughters. Judy wonders if she should inform Russell of the shooting, but she grimaces and decides against it. He left, therefore wouldn't be told anything anymore. Judy allows her gaze to drift from the doors and into the parking lot, and her eyebrow raises at the sight of a speeding Lexus, screeching to a halt and the door flung open. A familiar blonde sprints frenziedly for the group and Judy gasps in surprise.

"Amanda!"

"Mom!" Mandy wheezes as Judy squeezes her in a hug, before releasing her eldest child.

"Did you come all the way from school?"

"Of course I did," Mandy pants, clutching her side. Judy holds her forearm to steady her until Mandy can stand alone. "As soon as I heard, I jumped on a plane...flew to Akron, rented a car...sped all the way here, I might have broken the law a few times...I didn't even _finish_ my lunch."

Judy stifles a hysterical, tired laugh and introduces Shelby to Mandy.

"Shelby, Mandy, Mandy, Shelby," Judy says. "Quinn's sister," she adds unnecessarily.

"Hi. I, er, adopted your niece," Shelby offers awkwardly. Mandy nods.

"Quinn told me," she acknowledges. "May I see a picture of Beth?"

Shelby offers her phone and the college student studies the image.

"She looks just like her," Mandy murmurs.

Judy prays silently Quinn will be able to see Beth again.

Another shot echoes to the lot—the first in a while—and parents shriek loudly in fear.

* * *

Jacob fires off another shot, just to rattle his external audience, reveling in the fear he instigated this morning.

He's been prowling in the hallways, and has lost count of all the bullets he's used. Jacob is jumpy and almost high off adrenaline. He spies a fallen football player and stands over the body, sneering. He knows every victim instantly regrets their actions, but you can't change the past. He believes they deserve it.

Jacob can see the emergency crews outside, and knows he has very little time left. He knows he will end this. All he needs a final, essential target.

After that, he'll take his own life. Most gunmen do anyway. Better that than juvie, a screwed up future and furious, vengeful parents intent on lynching him. Jacob doesn't regret his actions, but pities his mother and father. They'll be shamed in Lima forever, looked at with disdain for raising a child that did this, but he has to finish this endeavor.

He'll find the leader of all bullying at school. The one who could have stopped it, but didn't.

Head Cheerio, Queen of McKinley herself, Quinn Fabray.

He guesses baby Fabray will never, ever meet her mother after all. _Pity._

* * *

"Rachel, hey, focus," Quinn orders, snapping the fingers of her free hand. "Tell me something else."

Somewhere along the line, Rachel intertwined their hands. (Quinn doesn't mind.)

"About what?" Rachel grouches petulantly.

"Barbra Streisand. I know you can't resist dropping tibits about her even if you are hurt."

Rachel pauses before agreeing. "True. Okay, she has eight Grammy awards."

"Fascinating. And don't you love her because of _Funny Girl?_"

"You listened," Rachel says, sounding exhausted but approving and mollified.

"I like to listen to you," Quinn blurts out honestly. Rachel's eyes watch her in speculation from her shoulder, and Quinn fights a blush from spreading up her skin. Why, why, why did her brain decide to spit that out? Rachel doesn't say anything, but a thoughtful look settles on her features. Quinn stares at the clock on a distant wall, and sometimes, hears the automatic bells ring, signaling a period change. It's been nearly three hours, Quinn realizes. How could three hours change so much? Three hours ago, she wouldn't be sitting with Rachel Berry, she's be suffering in class and dreading Cheerios practice. She wouldn't be baring a bit of her soul to Rachel Berry either.

She wouldn't be _thisclose_ to admitting that she cared a lot about Rachel. It was at the tip of her tongue, and the heavy danger of the situation speeds up her heart and her brain. Her confusing feelings have accelerated into paralyzing fear that Rachel won't make it to the end of the day.

Rachel wonders something similar. She won't lie—she's noticed a kind hazel gaze sometimes following her during glee practice, and instantly averting when she looked up. Quinn had been a hundred times nicer than last year, listening to her conversations but doesn't say much in return, just offering small smiles. Rachel even remembers the angry glint in Quinn's eyes when Santana, Kurt, or Mercedes dropped a rude comment before she composes herself. It's different, and Rachel doesn't object to it.

She isn't blind either. Everyone knows Quinn is attractive. Quinn won't pretend, she knows it too.

Which makes Rachel question her thoughts—did she care of Quinn as a friend, or more? She's never had a _real_ friend before, but...

Quinn, promising to support her through this, keeping her conscious with queries, and the unholy terror in the cheerleader's eyes at the thought of Rachel dying?

(She leans earnestly to the latter, perhaps too much.)

Her conclusions give her courage, and she thinks of something crazy.

"Quinn?"

"Hmm?"

"May I suggest something unorthodox?"

"I'm a regular Christian," Quinn jokes, and Rachel half-smiles.

"I know that."

"Well...what is it?"

"I think it will be an experience for me to have, because I am dying, and I'll probably won't be able to keep this up, hard as I'm trying," she adds hastily at Quinn's frown, "and I think, because of the very little time I have here today that maybe it will be an interesting idea if I am able to—"

"Spit it out, Berry," Quinn sighs. Rachel looks at her shoes before gathering her usual resolve.

"I think...I think that we should kiss," Rachel blurts out.

"Hold on, Peyton Sawyer!" Quinn yelps. "You want to kiss _me_? Why?"

"Bucket list quota, I guess," Rachel shrugs nonchalantly.

Quinn stops speaking and a hot blush burns a trail up her neck and ears—did the boiler room _explode_ somewhere?—and her face blazes, surely enough to start a wildfire. Quinn instantly recalls glee practices, watching Rachel sing, lyrics to that infernal Katy Perry song, her own curiosity that escaped her rigid upbringing, and the damn amassed affection for Rachel that had only grown like a weed in her brain. It's not like these feelings are completely created today, they're just been...hidden, she supposes. Her blush deepens when she realizes that yes, she actually _wants_ to, because, yeah, Rachel's always been cute, obviously, with those sweaters and pretty grin...

Brittany kisses girls all time and it doesn't mean anything. So this...won't mean anything either. It's _just _a kiss.

_Right?_

Quinn wonders why she hasn't examined at her thoughts in greater detail before, as she realizes that Rachel might not be thinking clearly. Maybe she's disoriented and confused from all the blood loss and it's addled her brain. She guesses that it's okay, she wants it too—and Rachel is in pain, so...it'll make it...better? She can see an apparition of her father screaming swears and profanities, promising she'll go to Hell if she does this. Quinn ignores it, noticing she doesn't care and hides her chagrin.

"Okay," she mumbles. Rachel snaps her head sideways so fast that it looks uncomfortable.

"Okay?" Rachel repeats disbelievingly—this was _Quinn Fabray_—and her eyes widen in surprise.

"Yeah," Quinn retorts. "Why not? It's just a kiss."

Rachel bites her lip and Quinn zeroes in unthinkingly on the action.

_Please don't be awkward_, Quinn silently begs and Rachel burst out laughing.

"No, of course not, Quinn."

"Wait, did I say that _aloud_?"

Rachel nods between giggles but is careful of her injury. Quinn broods.

"What, is this, Embarrass Quinn Day?" She grumbles. Rachel beams brightly.

"No, don't worry, I'm not making fun of you. I don't want things to be awkward either."

Quinn huffs as Rachel shifts slightly against the bookcase they're leaning on. Quinn leans forward a little, and the distance between them so unexpectedly heavy with tension that Quinn feels her stomach flip. She finds herself studying Rachel's face, with bronze skin and cute features, like a little doll. Her eyes aren't just a dull brown, but a mixture of dark hazel and coffee mixed together under long eyelashes. Quinn tries to remember why she disliked Rachel in the first place as Rachel's taking the initiative and moving closer and Quinn isn't nervous at all (really, she's not). Quinn closes her eyes, and waits.

When Rachel finally kisses her, she admittedly forgets everything, even her own name and her mind goes blank. She can't focus on anything except kissing Rachel back eagerly because it's so different and feels good and it's something she's never done before. Quinn vaguely remembers Puck telling Mike about how awesome Rachel is when they made out, and wholeheartedly agrees; Rachel's a fantastic kisser. It isn't something she used to and is so dissimilar from kissing Puck or Finn that she doubts she'll think of kissing the same way. Her head spins dizzily until Rachel pulls away, looking a little dazed herself.

"Uh...thanks for that," Rachel says, still in a stupor, and Quinn blinks lethargically.

"No problem," she manages, because, yeah, it totally rocked and wasn't a problem at all. "That's what friends are for," she adds lamely. _Moron._

And it didn't mean anything—it _didn't—_so it's cool.

They don't have any more time to analyze it. The library door shakes and rattles like an earthquake until it's fully pushed open, and stomping steps pause before continuing inside. A horrible, spine-tingling grinding noise—Quinn suddenly identifies it as a chair scraping across the linoleum—and a louder crash breaks the silence until the steps start up again. Quinn meets Rachel's terrified gaze as Rachel's fingers squeeze the life out of her own. Quinn's positive her heart is about to force itself swiftly out of her throat and Rachel stifles a breath. Quinn is close enough to actually see tears of dread and hopelessness forming in Rachel's eyes. Both freeze up in alarm like prey listening for predators.

Quinn wants to punch herself in the face. Hard. They found a haven in the library, but she and Rachel forgot the most important part of a lockdown—_silence_.

They led the gunman right to them.

Quinn realizes in horror she won't be able to protect Rachel.

The steps advance until they stop.

It's too silent—exactly like the movies when the killer's literally about to jump and strike—and Quinn is certain if she doesn't die by gunfire, it'll be a heart attack.

When she hears the voice of the gunman, she almost faints. Rachel squeaks in fright.

"Hi Quinn, hi Rachel," Jacob Ben Israel just-about-giggles madly.

Quinn puts the pieces together—Jacob moved a chair to wedge the door closed from the inside, trapping them here.

* * *

(meanwhile)

Captain Campbell directs his team into the front door of McKinley High, where two officers start forward, the eyes and ears of the group. They had left the parking lot and a grim Chief Sullivan, exchanging terse nods. This wouldn't end until this kid was either caught or killed. Most parents would demand the first, so he can be tried and slammed into jail for years with no hope of parole. Others, angrier ones, would yell for his execution. Campbell won't instigate an attack unless the boy does first.

It isn't rocket science though. They have _bulletproof_ vests. This Jacob kid has a few handguns, _maybe_.

If Jacob makes the first move, he goes down. If he surrenders, they won't fire.

The larger portion of Campbell's team hovers near doors outside, efficiently securing exits.

While waiting for the announcement, Campbell sees at least a dozen bodies of deceased teenagers, sporting a violent shade of red against their clothes. He sighs. Violence was never the answer to anything, and this boy wanted to solve his problems with a gun. Campbell doesn't sleep well in this line of work. He always remembers _that_ part.

"Clear," one officer hisses, peering down the hallway. Campbell points.

"Three left, three right, two stay here by the door, and the rest with me. Once you clear this floor, return here and we'll start clearing the classrooms, one by one. Stay alert, do not engage the boy. Try to reason with him, and if he fires first, you have permission to respond. Is that understood?"

There's a chorus of 'yes sirs' and Campbell starts straight down the hallway with four other men.

It takes Campbell's team ten minutes to clear the first floor, and all reassemble near the front entrance of McKinley. Campbell digs out a badge and identification, and nods to his team. They approach the nearest door, an office, and Campbell carefully slides the items under the door. He hears a muffled gasp.

"For anyone in there, this is Captain Roger Campbell, SWAT. We're here to remove you from the building, the floor is cleared. You are safe to unlock the door."

Several beats pass, that's completely normal. Finally, the occupant opens the door slowly.

"It's safe?" The man asks. Campbell nods, recognizing the man from the attendance list and pictures. Principal Figgins.

"Follow Officer White, he'll escort you to the front door."

Campbell waits until White returns, retrieves his badge and identification from the floor, and with a jerk of his head, they wearily continue the process of liberating classrooms.

* * *

"What's going on?" Mandy whispers. Everyone holds their breath in unison, with fixed gazes on the doors.

"Someone's coming outside," Shelby answers, squinting. "Ah, Figgins."

"The principal?" Judy asks, and Shelby nods.

Figgins is almost assaulted with questions and pleas until police bat away the parents.

"I hope this goes quickly," Mandy worries. "This kid could be a ticking time bomb...er, forget I said that."

Classes in the first floor silently exit the front doors, and the parking lot is ordered to remain quiet. Any noise could redirect an attack to them. Students pass the barricades and reunite tearfully with their parents, and someone takes record of their names. Parents who haven't found their children refocus on the doors and some murmur vigorous prayers over and over again. Kurt, Sam, and Mike are the first of glee club to be escorted out. Burt Hummel has tears in his eyes as he hugs Kurt fiercely before Carole Hudson does to her (sort of) stepson, followed quickly by Brittany, who hugs all three boys with a bright smile. Mike's mother muffles her joyful wails and Sam's parents are converged around their son in a fashion similar to a football huddle. Kurt returns to Sam's side as they join the group waiting for the rest of McKinley to be rescued.

Several minutes pass and no more classes emerge. Everyone on the first floor is out.

Chief Sullivan stares. Shouldn't they be evacuating the second floor? Unless—

"_Sullivan, this is Campbell,_" his walkie talkie crackles. "_We've located the shooter_."

* * *

"Jacob," Quinn responds. Rachel mumbles an apology to the blonde, saying she should have mentioned this before.

"Didn't expect to find you two here," Jacob returns pleasantly. "But, I guess you forgot what to do in a lockdown. You know, keep quiet and stay out of sight?"

Quinn grinds her teeth. She didn't like being mocked, even in this situation. Jacob smiles.

"I was actually looking for you, Quinn. Funny how that worked out?"

"I guess," Quinn says bitingly. Rachel clasps their hands tighter; a warning. Quinn resists it.

"I bet you're wondering why I wanted to find you."

"This whole villain-dramatic-pause thing during your speech is really aggravating me," Quinn snaps. "Get to the damn point."

Jacob looks angrier. Rachel whimpers pitifully. Quinn wishes she could rewind and say something else, or instead, have someone put a muzzle on her mouth.

"You're the reason I chose to do this," Jacob sneers. Quinn despises the nasally tone of his voice, always has, always will.

"Excuse me?"

"You run McKinley with an iron fist, Quinn! Not even Sylvester or Figgins has as much of an influence as you do. You let the football players and Cheerios slushie anyone they please and don't say a single thing about it. I'm one of the many who are bullied every day in this fucking school and no one bothers to care! You don't care about anyone!"

"That's not true!" _Beth, Rachel, glee club, her Mom, her sister...Rachel..._

"It's not? You got Santana kicked off the top of the pyramid so you could take her spot! You wanted something bad and you took it, no matter what the cost. You don't care about consequences. You let everything happen in your school and today, it all exploded in your face," Jacob scoffs.

Quinn tries to fight the inevitable remorse and shame, but Jacob's words are true. All of them.

"Quinn's different now," Rachel pipes up, looking paler than ever. "She's changed."

"Not enough. She isn't as hostile or nasty, but she never says a word to stop her _minions_."

Jacob forces a sour laugh and waves his gun around for emphasis as he speaks; Rachel's eyes follow it warily.

"What do you want me to do, Jacob?" Quinn barks. "Apologize?"

Jacob freezes and Quinn is certain he'll blast her right between the eyes. His mouth twists into an ugly scowl and she internally panics, because he's unpredictable here. _Great_—she shoots her mouth off again without thinking and makes the already crazy kid even crazier. Quinn wants to flee from the room, attack Jacob, do anything to stop this insanity, but she can't leave Rachel behind (as if she would). Jacob is quiet for a full minute, just staring at her so furiously that she breaks out in a cold sweat.

"No. I want you to watch. I want you to watch me kill Rachel, and I'll let you go free with survivor's guilt. Scout's honor."

Rachel cries out involuntarily in terror and Quinn fixes a steely glare on the boy.

"You're despicable. You'll have to go through me to get to her, and no, I won't leave."

"Is Quinn Fabray being _noble_?" Jacob pretends to ask. "Wow, I didn't see that coming."

"You're just a coward," Quinn goads foolishly. "You can't even hack high school, can you?"

Quinn knows she's crossing a line and is deep in dangerous, idiotic territory, bordering on rash and reckless behavior, but she couldn't stop herself from saying that. Quinn wishes she could see her life flash before her eyes before she dies, because things are quickly turning for the worse and she wants a cool recap of her existence. Jacob fumes.

"Excuse me?"

"You're a coward," Quinn repeats. "You're the one who's at fault here. You _let_ the bullies get away with this. You _let_ them bring you down and hurt you every day, and you can't even take it like millions have before you. Rachel was bullied by me, Santana, and Puck for God knows how long, and she just took it in stride and kept going. She held her head up after every single slushie or mean comment on her Myspace page, and found something that made her happy. Jacob, you could've talked to Ms. Pillsbury, joined a club, a sport, something to get you through and you didn't. High school isn't forever. You just hid behind your blog and became the coward who didn't stand up to them."

Somewhere in her head, Quinn hears a voice saying that she shouldn't make somebody with a weapon angry and demean who they are, but she doesn't really listen to it.

Jacob scowls. "I wouldn't have to stand up to anyone if they didn't bully me. Stop trying to justify your innocence, Quinn! You don't have any. I should just kill you now."

"Just don't hurt Rachel," Quinn challenges with new bravado, adrenaline rushing in her blood.

Jacob suddenly whips his head to the door, listening. "Great...the cops are finally here. Guess my time is up."

"Wait, _what?_" Rachel squeaks. Quinn covers her mouth, whispering for her to be quiet.

Jacob stands up. "Quinn, I'll kill Rachel unless you do something for me."

"What? Anything."

"I want you to watch me," Jacob snarls ferociously. "I want you to see the result of your terrible leadership and failure to be a better person. No closing your eyes, no turning away. You'll remember this for the rest of your life, and I hope it sticks on your conscious until you die. You'll remember junior year at McKinley High as the year you let over a dozen people die, and they'll remember you as the spark that lit the fire on my revenge. Everyone will blame you, Quinn, and you won't be able to show your face in Lima again, but, I won't be around to hurt anyone else. Face your consequences, Quinn and watch me, or I'll shoot Rachel right now, and I assure you, I won't miss."

"Quinn," Rachel croaks, and Quinn sees how little time Rachel actually has. Her skin was sallow and sweaty, her breath is too fast, and Quinn thinks that her 'attempt' to fix Rachel's leg failed. She isn't a doctor—her basis for wrapping the wound was from a canceled show. She has to do this, has to see this for the lockdown and horror to end. The faster she does, the faster Rachel can get medical attention. Rachel looks very close to fainting, and Quinn turns back to Jacob, with new purpose and determination.

"Okay," Quinn whispers. "Okay, I'll do it."

Jacob looks positively savage, if not deranged with her answer, and he offers a face-splitting grin. Quinn feels as if she's about to jump off a cliff. Pushed off, actually.

Quinn locks her jaw and saves her regrets and rapidly forming self-hatred for later.

"Close your eyes," Quinn warns to Rachel, who does. Quinn crouches in front of Rachel, blocking the view.

This won't be like a movie, Quinn thinks. There won't be a redo, another take, a cut. Jacob won't shake himself off and be able to walk away. He'll never write his blog again.

Quinn wonders, somewhat morbidly, what it'll look like, and wants to scream.

The door begins to shake again amidst shouts and warnings by the police, who peer at them through the window, and Jacob lifts the gun to his mouth. His teeth hold the metal barrel in place and Quinn feels her stomach turn over several times, like she's on a rollercoaster without a safety harness. Jacob's eyes narrow in threat, pointedly warning her to keep her eyes open and his finger twitches to the trigger, Quinn's heart begins to race loudly in her ribcage and up into her ears, when she desperately wishes she could redo this day over again, Jacob pulls the trigger in one quick, final motion, and Quinn clenches her teeth together, watching obediently as he had instructed.

* * *

_CRACK!_

_

* * *

_

"Hello?"

"Is anyone alive in there?"

"Can you hear me?"

_Titanic quote?_ Quinn's brain remembers absently. _Didn't think I'd actually hear _that_ in real life. Weird._

She tries to form coherent speech, breathing deeply through her nose before calling back. "Yes!"

"What's your status?"

"Jacob's dead—the shooter's dead," Quinn answers. "My friend needs a doctor now."

"We can't get through the door, is there an obstruction?"

Quinn unglues her hand from a quivering Rachel's, and she lets Rachel keep her eyes closed. Quinn walks slowly to the door, averting her gaze from the motionless body—or, what was left of it—only two feet away and pulls the chair from the doorhandles where it was wedged below. She pulls the handle toward her and is greeted by about seven men, clad in black bulletproof armor and thick helmets, carrying weapons larger than her arm. Their eyes widen in shock and sympathy as they scrutinize her appearance.

"Jesus Christ," an officer mumbles before he can stop himself. His captain barks a reprimand before turning to Quinn.

"We'll take care of your friend," Campbell says kindly. One man strides past and scoops Rachel up in his arms, who looks frail and vulnerable in the officer's embrace. The officer carrying Rachel disappears into the hallway to bring her to an ambulance. Quinn sees dozens of SWAT members marching to classroom doors, leading students out.

Ambulance crews search for wounded kids and staff; coroners examine bodies on the floors.

Campbell offers his hand to Quinn, as if to lead her from the scene and everything in it. Quinn wishes it could be that easy. She'll never forget this day.

Touched by such an unexpected, fatherly action, Quinn swallows.

"It's all right," Campbell persuades soothingly. "You're safe. It's over now."

His expression betrays him, she observes. He looks slightly disturbed, even alarmed. _Of her_.

Quinn can't find her voice and just nods jerkily, like he expects her to, but refuses the hand and it's comfort.

_It'll never be over_, she thinks as she follows the captain down the hallway. _Never._

Quinn pretends not to notice Campbell's face beside her—repulsed, stricken, as he stares at the grotesque condition of her and her uniform—and walks with him outside.


	3. Chapter 3

**Just watched _Glee, _cracked up pretty much the entire time. Great episode. Anyway, I am aware of a similar story floating around, but it doesn't bother me, as long as they keep it different. Here's chapter three, which I couldn't resist posting even though homework calls, hope you all enjoy it.**

**

* * *

**

Her heart seems to pause in its tempo as she steps outside.

She squints and sees ambulances, screeching and honking their horns. In the distance, Shelby Corcoran follows Hiram and Leroy Berry, all three squeezing into an ambulance to be with Rachel. _Rachel_. Quinn wants to sprint after them, to find out if Rachel's okay. She _has_ to be.

Shelby glances back once, her expression turning horrified, before she gets in the ambulance.

Quinn sees dozens of parents, teary-eyed and hysterical, waiting. She knows that some of them will be waiting forever, because their children will never _really_ leave McKinley.

Quinn hears gasps and rapid exclamations, and stares down at her uniform, utterly disgusted.

"Quinn!"

"Holy Mary, Mother of God..."

"—I'm going to be _sick_—"

"It's _Carrie_ all over again!" (Kurt, she knows that girlish shriek anywhere.)

Quinn can't face anyone, but knows they're gawking. Everyone's just _looking_ and watching and staring at her—why was she suddenly the center of all attention?—and her skin feels like it's _crawling_ with disappointment and hatred and total shame. She can feel the heavy, warm blood on her and her uniform, like a second skin—it's mocking her, like a tattoo that won't fade entirely—as Jacob's harsh words sting her heart but his blood paints her body like a _stain_ on her soul.

She can taste it too—the _blood_—it lingers around her mouth and she gags uncontrollably.

Campbell, still next to her, apparently does not understand Quinn's distress.

"Don't worry!" Campbell assures her family and friends. "It's not _her_ blood!"

Mandy jumps the barricade as Quinn quickly keels over and vomits.

"Quinn, _Quinn_," Mandy breathes as she holds Quinn's hair from her face, ignoring the sticky blood smearing on her hands. Quinn coughs, clutching at the pavement desperately and Mandy can practically sense her sister's humiliation and sorrow. Quinn sits back and her fingers ghost over her abdomen and Mandy knows it isn't all about sickness or fear.

"I care," Quinn mumbles hoarsely. "I _do_ care..."

"Of course you do, kid," Mandy soothes. "Let's get you cleaned up, huh, Quinnie?"

Quinn nods obediently and allows Mandy to pull her to her feet. They're just a ways from the group of anxious glee members, Judy, and the collective parents, who wait impatiently so they can check if Quinn is okay. Judy reaches out to help Quinn but Quinn suddenly stops in her tracks.

"Hospital," Quinn urges, tightening her grip on Mandy's fingers, who winces.

"What?"

"Hospital," Quinn repeats agitatedly, and Mandy remembers she saw Quinn staring after Shelby.

"Oh! You're talking about Shelby Corcoran's daughter?"

Quinn nods as Judy pushes past the others and squeaks at Quinn's appearance.

"All right, let's go," Mandy says (avoiding the humorous fact that Quinn was reduced to one word sentences), pulling Quinn along with her to the rented Lexus, and protesting Judy in their wake. Santana, her hand clasped in Brittany's, turns to the rest of glee club. Mr. Schuester and Ms. Pillsbury have already gone for his car, to follow the Fabrays.

"Who's driving?" Santana demands impatiently.

"We have a minivan," Puck offers, as Mrs. Puckerman hands over her keys.

"I'll have my dad bring me," Artie decides. Kurt, Sam, and Mercedes pick carpool with him.

Puck leads Santana, Brittany, Mike, Tina, and Finn in a hasty march to the minivan, while their parents opt to return home, comforted with their children's safety and the day's danger ended. Puck slams the door shut and speeds out of the lot, driving quickly to Lima General. Santana sits with Brittany in the back, Finn in the passenger seat, while Mike and Tina take the middle.

Brittany sighs. "Will Rachel be okay, San?"

"I don't know," Santana answers honestly. "I hope so."

"You like Rachel now," Brittany says, smug. "I know you do."

"She's annoying," Santana mumbles gruffly. "But I don't want Manhands to die, okay?"

Brittany giggles. Santana huffs.

"Are we dating now, Santana?"

Santana thinks over her previous terror and internally admits that yes, she does want a relationship. Their connection runs deeper than a close friendship, even if it started out that way. She doesn't want Brittany with someone else and if she had to redo high school again, including this day, she would because it brought her closer to Brittany. It won't be unexpected to anyone with eyes and their status as Cheerios will protect them, along with Quinn's position as HBIC.

Santana stops that thought in its tracks. She doubts status will really matter anymore after today and Quinn is...checked out of anything at the moment. She nods at Brittany instead, who beams.

"Yes. We're dating now, Britt."

"No more Puck," Brittany warns sternly, poking Santana's arm, as Santana sighs dramatically.

"Fine."

Brittany grins.

Santana smiles genuinely and lets her mind wander to Quinn, wondering how she'll fix that.

* * *

Amanda Fabray is a near polar opposite to her younger sister, aside from looks and other quirks. They share the same shiny, jealousy-inducing blonde hair, and similar expressive hazel eyes. They were brought up the same, drilled with religion and _Christian_ values like little mindless soldiers. They possess a similar determination, identical perseverance, and the almost forgotten tendency to trick Russell Fabray into believing he has two perfect daughters that he can show off proudly to his law firm.

The last point is irrelevant. Both girls don't care about their father anymore.

Mandy loves noise, Quinn longs for quiet. Mandy can shop for hours on end, Quinn refuses to.

Quinn dances, Mandy doesn't. Quinn sings, Mandy doesn't.

Mandy is forgetful to a fault, Quinn is retentive to a fault.

_"Mandy! Mandy! Wait!" A ten year old Quinn sprinted and nearly slammed into a seventeen year old Mandy, about to leave with her date. Quinn held her hand out, offering Mandy's purse._

_"You forgot this," Quinn wheezed. Mandy laughed._

_"Thanks, Quinnie."_

Mandy usually forgets everything—her license, makeup, schoolwork, but today, today, was different. Mandy won't ever forget today, when all Quinn wants is to forget. Mandy will always remember the sight of her sister, drenched in crimson blood and her eyes haunted with sadness. Mandy won't forget the way Quinn seemed to hold herself; lower, less proud...defeated. She'll always recall Quinn's expression—blank and listless, as if handed a death sentence with a smile.

Mandy has never seen anyone up close with that much agony in their steps.

As Mandy drives to Lima General, turning a quick gaze on her sister, who stares out the window, she wishes she could erase Quinn's near-photographic memory, just once.

* * *

Rachel feels like she's floating on air, like an astronaut.

She remembers closing her eyes like Quinn ordered, and passing out.

She eyes her surroundings with interest, as she stands in a lush forest. The sky is hidden by clouds and the canopy above, but it looks close to a storm. She hears something akin to thunder in the distance and shouting, and she wrinkles her nose in distaste. She'll think of that later.

Voices whisper softly in the trees, and she strains to listen.

_"...lost a lot of blood, need a transfusion—"_

_"—unexpected...her friend's quick thinking..."_

Rachel walks slowly down a path, stepping over pesky roots and around branches. Her eyes admire the dazzling green and woods around her, and she almost flies like a gazelle through the forest, exploring it. She finds the edge of the trees, and it's too bright for her eyes. She ponders if she should go ahead and investigate, because she can hear amazing music and it's the loveliest she's ever heard before. It's beckoning and she is about to move when she hears a playful laugh.

"Why don't you stay for awhile?"

Rachel tears her eyes from the light just ahead and peers left, seeing a figure in the distance.

"Stay?"

Indecision offers two options: forward or left.

"You'll never catch me anyway," the figure snickers, shrugging, and sprints from view.

Rachel grinds her teeth in frustration—she hates being bested at anything.

Rachel wars with two choices, forward to examine the brightness, it's lovely and warm now and she can hear music...or the hunt, the exhilarating chase after the mysterious figure—she recognizes the laugh and it's distinctly feminine—she wants to know her identity, and the girl is getting further away into the trees every second with an insane belief that she can win, but it's the dashing thrill of the pursuit, isn't it, that gets her excited? The opportunity to beat someone?

(Somewhere in Rachel's brain, she admits that this experience is very, very weird.)

_"Rachel?"_

_"Can you hear me?"_

Competition, or curiosity?

Rachel impulsively decides left and runs faster than she ever thought she could and realizes the path curves back into a straight line, and she can see the figure hastening to keep her lead. Rachel breaks into a sprint as the girl ahead is giggling melodically, and it's infuriating—couldn't she slow down for a second and let her win, because Rachel Berry always wins—Rachel speeds quicker and quicker and understands the girl led her backwards toward the voices which get louder but Rachel doesn't realize fast enough and has just enough time to lunge for familiar blonde hair at the finish line when she reflexively opens her eyes.

"Hi, sweetie," Shelby says, smiling in relief as she leans closer from her chair.

Rachel blinks and scrutinizes her environment. She's lying in a hospital bed, and the room is dimmed. The clock reads 4:23AM and she struggles to remember the last time she looked at a clock. The slightly numb feeling in her leg and the clock forces her to flashback to earlier—Jacob, the bullet hitting her and the pain and Quinn's terrified expression—she's panicking and about to scream until Shelby snatches her hand in her own and squeezes it gently, calming her down.

"Rachel, just relax."

"But what happened? What about—the shooting, I—"

"_Relax_. I'll explain," Shelby insists. Rachel exhales deeply and nods.

"The boy, he shot you yesterday at school. Do you remember?"

Rachel nods again.

"You crawled to the library," Shelby continues, a small, impressed smile on her lips, "I'm very proud of that, Rachel. You took initiative—I mean, who wouldn't in that situation, but that's beside the point—and Quinn, stayed with you and kept you awake until...until it was all over," Shelby added, Rachel noticing her obvious skip over Jacob's demise but didn't comment, "and we got you here just in time. You've been asleep after surgery for over ten hours."

"Where are my fathers?"

"The cafeteria. They were sitting here for so long I suggested they get something to eat."

"Why are you here?" Rachel asks. "Shouldn't you be with Beth?"

"She's with an overnight sitter. I came here because you're my daughter...why wouldn't I?"

Rachel shrugs. "I don't know. I didn't know you still wanted to be my mom."

Shelby looks away, upset, as she organizes her thoughts.

"I wanted to tell you before the shooting happened that I regret my decision. I regretted the day I gave you up all these years and worse, the day I rejected you. The thought of losing you today almost gave me a heart attack...I said that I wanted a baby and that we had missed out on too much together that I didn't really think about what I really wanted. Mr. Schuester messed me up a little. I missed you for so long, I had decided that you being a teenager wouldn't correlate to my position as your mother. But I do want it. Maybe it's too late, maybe your opinion about me has changed. It's not like you need me in your life. I did reject you, so it would be fine for you to reject me."

"Mom—"

"I wanted to apologize as well. I hurt your feelings. I know that being around Beth would be awkward for you, I mean, if you actually decided to accept me again, but I wouldn't mind a teenager to boss around, you know? You're my daughter, no matter what the contract says. If you let me, I can be a parental figure, or just a friend. Your fathers and I have talked and I wanted—"

"_Mom!_" Rachel exclaims, and Shelby stops, embarrassed.

"Sorry."

"I didn't know you babbled. Genes are fascinating, aren't they?"

Shelby nods apprehensively.

"So...you do want me as your daughter...no seconds thoughts this time?" Rachel wonders.

"Yes, and no," Shelby says. "I was scared and idiotic and with no idea how to handle the situation. Those aren't proper excuses, but all I'm asking for is another chance."

Rachel is silent for so long that Shelby wilts into her seat, about to offer to leave.

"Okay."

"Okay?" Shelby repeats incredulously. Rachel wouldn't be that forgiving, would she?

"Okay."

"Um...great," Shelby blurts out. "Great, that's...great!"

Rachel grins as Shelby hesitantly returns it.

"You can relax too, if you want. That's a yes, Mom. You look very nervous."

Shelby notices the not-so-subtle shift from _Shelby_ or _Ms. Corcoran_ to Mom in Rachel's wording from their previous encounter.

(She likes it.)

Shelby leans on the chair, relieved. "Good. You scared me for a minute."

"I'm always dramatic."

"I can see that. We're very much alike in that way."

They fall into companionable silence for several minutes.

Rachel shifts on her bed, and looks warily down in the direction of her leg. Shelby grins in amusement.

"I know what you're thinking, sweetie. No, they _didn't_ have to amputate your leg."

Rachel huffs her relief. "Good. I can still dance."

Shelby laughs. "Well, are you ready to see your friends?"

Rachel nods and leans up into a sitting position, and Shelby stands.

"Before I wake the first one," Shelby says, gesturing to a sleeping Quinn Fabray on a couch just three feet away, Rachel, surprised, had not noticed before, "I want you to understand that Quinn's had a difficult time. Between the shooting itself and you getting hurt, she's...struggling."

"Struggling," Rachel repeats before it dawns on her. "Oh. Oh. She...saw _it_."

Their previous cheer vanishes instantly in favor of the issue.

Shelby nods. "Yes. And you didn't see it, nor did you see her afterwards."

Rachel blanches. "I'm guessing horror-movie worthy?"

"Quite."

"I'll help her," Rachel volunteers. "I—we're friends this year...I guess. I'll do my best."

"I don't know, Rachel," Shelby sighs, looking graver than before. "You might have your work cut out for you. I know you don't give up without a fight, but...she's going to have a tough transition period. I can admit from experience that giving up your child is heartbreaking, combined with today...she's had to grow up quickly. The other students at McKinley and your glee club won't understand anything about what she's going through. Even you won't."

"Regardless," Rachel argues, "I'll fix her. I promise you that."

Shelby holds up her hands, accepting Rachel's persistence. "Okay."

She crouches, tapping Quinn on the arm as the blonde dozes. Quinn looks—even from Rachel's vantage point—sad and troubled. Quinn's eyes flutter and she mumbles softly.

"Mom?"

Quinn blinks, confused, and recognizes Shelby, rearranging her expression to apathy.

"Oh, hello, Ms. Corcoran," Quinn greets. Rachel suppresses a snort.

"Rachel's awake," Shelby whispers back kindly. "I'll be in the cafeteria."

As the door shuts, Quinn meets Rachel's eyes and hastens to the abandoned chair.

"How are you?" Quinn asks, suddenly very close and Rachel jumps a little, startled.

"Fine, I'm fine," Rachel babbles, staring at the haggard state of Quinn's normally flawless face. Quinn looks pale and exhausted and her eyes have lost a bit of their shine. She seems to move slower, more carefully than usual, and Rachel wonders why. Quinn settles into her seat, keeping her gaze.

"How are you?"

Quinn grimaces before she can stop herself and Rachel feels guilty.

She watches in frustration and annoyance as Quinn's concern melts into collected stoicism.

How the hell was she supposed to help if Quinn keeps her emotions under lock and key?

"Fine."

"Quinn, listen, I—"

"I'll bring everyone else here," Quinn cuts her off abruptly as she rises, completely removed of her previous warmth and morphing back into Cheerio-Quinn, "since you're awake now."

"Quinn, _wait_—"

Quinn pauses at the door without turning around, allowing her ears only, not her eyes. Her hazel, exposing eyes were the gates of her feelings and Rachel assumes Quinn looks away to hide. She isn't used to sharing and won't open up easily—she's just not that kind of person, Rachel internally admits—and it's aggravating beyond measure. Rachel fumbles for something to say in this being a rare occasion Quinn will listen to her, an occurrence she can see disappearing soon.

"Thank you. For saving me."

Quinn doesn't move, just exhales loudly.

"You're welcome."

Rachel watches as she turns around only once, looking at the floor instead of Rachel herself.

"I'll always be around to save you."

Before Rachel can reply, the blonde has vanished.

* * *

Quinn enters the waiting room, adjusting her expression. She won't give anything away. Ever. Her problems will stay safely in the dark, she decides. She doesn't want to talk about today. And she won't. No one can make her anyway. If they tried—well, she'd go unhelpfully mute.

Her sweats are comfy—Mandy had run home and got them as Mercedes helped her clean up before she snuck into Rachel's room to wait for the brunette to wake up. She sighs. The blood is gone, washed away into a sewer drain, but the invisible, metaphorical blood, the one staining her hands with all of her sins remains, feeding into her guilt and despair. Quinn hides it deep in her heart.

Finn snores in his seat; Mr. Schuester paces distractedly; Ms. Pillsbury is on her cell phone.

Artie is dozing in his wheelchair, while Tina has Mike's head in her lap, both are asleep.

Judy and Mandy carry a soft conversation in the corner, noticing Quinn instantly.

Sam is stretched out across three chairs, with Kurt close by, both sleeping rather ungracefully. Puck has Mercedes using his shoulder as a pillow, while his eyes stare at the clock. Santana is whispering with a drowsy Brittany and everyone awake looks up expectantly at Quinn.

"Hey," she calls.

"How is she?" Mr. Schuester asks. Ms. Pillsbury listens, her head tilted to one side.

"She's awake, she's okay. They have her in a cast after a couple transfusions," Quinn explains tiredly, ignoring his sympathetic look. "Rachel can see all of you now, if you like. Room 268."

The sleepy members are woken up and herded out, following Mr. Schuester. Puck loiters with Santana as Brittany wheels Artie with the group. Quinn gestures backwards.

"You two should go see her too," she says pointedly. Santana doesn't move, as Puck moves closer and lifts Quinn's chin up with his hand, forcing her to meet his eyes.

"How are you doing, Baby Mama?"

"Go see Rachel, Puck," she snarls, slapping his hand away—how _dare_ he, and second, she didn't want his concern, or _anyone's_—and Puck acquiesces with a sad nod, shuffling silently past.

When it's just Santana, Quinn, Judy, and Mandy left, Quinn plops down into a seat.

"You too," she snaps.

"Don't be a bitch," Santana hisses, mindful of the receptionist and Judy, "just talk to me. Talk to someone about this, Q. Before it destroys you from the inside out. I can see you crashing headfirst into Crazytown and I don't want that happening."

"Don't test my patience," Quinn glares. "I swear, I'll—"

"I wouldn't even threaten my position on the squad," Santana remarks snidely. "That doesn't really matter right now, don't you think? And I wouldn't try to fight me again, we both know you lost. You don't have anything to bargain or intimidate me with, so stop trying. Just talk to me."

"Fuck off!" Quinn yells.

"Quinn!" Judy shouts.

Before Quinn realizes it, she's pushing Santana backwards, tackling her to the floor, and her fists are flying, clawing, _scratching_, she can barely see anything in her rage—Santana's cries of fury and Judy's screams are echoing in her ears as a punch smashes into her left eye, blinding her—Santana's face morphs back and forth between the fuming Latina and an insane Jacob as Quinn keeps slamming a devastating right hook over and over—and Mandy's restraining her arms as Mr. Schuester holds a flailing Santana back. Quinn breathes heavily as Santana bellows swears in a mix of Spanish and English and Quinn is shrieking nonsense promises of revenge and anger.

"Stop it!" Mr. Schuester thunders, infuriated. "_Again?_"

"What were you thinking?" Judy screeches, and Quinn struggles against Mandy's grip.

"She's...she's crazy," Santana gasps, glowering. "I—I tried to help..."

"Sure you did!" Quinn sneers. "Just leave me the fuck alone, Santana! All of you!"

Quinn wrestles free from her sister's arms and staggers down the hall before anyone can move.

* * *

She ends up in a distant ward, where a scarce nurse wanders by, clipboard in hand. A few raise their eyebrows but the hatred and resentment in her gaze keeps them quiet. She finds a seat on a bench and sits quietly, forcing herself to calm down and slow her brain down. She feels her eye with her fingertips, touching the swelled flesh and sighs deeply. She didn't mean to lose control like that...it just happened so quickly. She remembers the way her heartbeat jumped into a sprint the second she attacked—it was disconcerting and scary and she wants to regret it but can't.

Because in some sick way, she relieved herself of some of the anger and fear that Jacob knowingly left behind. She silently curses him to the deepest pits of hell. That psycho. It wasn't enough. She'll need another outlet to funnel her anger and rage into, some other punching bag if she wants to—

"Are you okay?" A voice questions, and she flinches automatically.

Her good eye focuses on a young boy, innocent and curious, staring with a bright smile so reminiscent of Rachel that she wants to cry and beg profusely for forgiveness—she was wrong, yes, she just needs someone to understand that...she needs Lima to understand her...

The boy waits for her answer as he sits beside her.

"I'm okay," she mumbles, keeping her tone light. He tilts his head in inquiry.

"You have a cut," he say simply, pointing at her face, as if it mattered. "That's not okay."

Quinn cracks a smile at that. "What's your name?"

"George," the boy replies with a shrug. She delights in the straightforward distraction that George presents. He's keeping her mind from Rachel and Jacob and Santana, and that's all she can ask for. He swings his feet, she notices, and he seems not to mind her lack of conversation.

"I'm Quinn."

"That's a neat name."

George keeps swinging his feet and Quinn sighs.

"Why are you here?" George wonders.

Quinn considers thoughtfully, choosing her words with care. She doubts a kid would really need to hear about gruesome suicides and a schoolwide massacre. "A boy from my school decided to hurt a lot of people, and I want to be here to support my friend who was injured yesterday."

George nods, like this happens all the time. Probably on a playground, Quinn muses.

"Why are you here?" Quinn asks. George indicates his own chest with his fist, like a caveman.

"I have a cold or something. Mom said it was nn-nnomina—"

"Pneumonia?" Quinn guesses kindly, and George nods.

"Yeah. I'm getting better though. The doctor said I never got a vaccine. Probably one more night, Mom thinks. They fixed it."

"Then shouldn't you be asleep?" Quinn teases. "I don't think five in the morning is a bedtime."

George haughtily rolls his eyes. "I'm nine years old. I don't have a bedtime."

Quinn raises her eyebrows and George sighs, like he's heard this before.

"Alright, fine. I do have a bedtime. But I couldn't sleep. There," he grumbles.

Quinn grins and playfully musses up his hair, and George yawns with a sleepy smile.

"I should be going," he says. "I hope your eye gets better."

"Nice to meet you, George, and likewise," she returns.

Quinn offers a mock-salute which George mimics, and the boy skips happily down the hallway, vanishing into a room and shutting the door. Quinn smiles to herself and vaguely wonders how children can trust others so easily. His open sincerity and sweetness reminds her a little of Beth. Ignoring the pang of longing in her heart for something she can't have, Quinn draws her knees closer to her chest and leans her head back against the wall, concentrating on not thinking about anything at all.

* * *

It's nearly seven in the morning when she moves, and her limbs ache from being stationary so long. She ambles slowly down the hallway, watching as doctors and nurses pay her no heed as they hurry off to do their jobs, muttering complex processes and medications. They have distractions, something to think about. She doesn't.

"Quinn?"

A man scrutinizes her as he comes into her vision, and she dimly recognizes him as Hiram Berry.

"Hello, sir," she says wearily, and he frowns in concern.

Quinn notices in her befuddled state that he's about an inch shorter than her in height. Funny.

"Have you slept lately, Quinn? And what happened to your eye?"

"Not really. And a fight with Santana."

Hiram gestures behind him, regarding her as if she'll drop dead any second. "Would you mind if I checked it out? I work here, and I don't want any permanent damage to happen to your eyes."

"Why not," she mumbles, and follows him into a simply decorated room, sitting on a table.

Hiram examines her swelled, bruised face before offering an ice pack.

"Lucky for you, the punch didn't break your eye socket, you'd need surgery," he comments.

Quinn holds the ice pack without replying, and just nods.

"Would you like something to eat?"

"No, thank you," she lies, ignoring the hunger in her stomach. "May I see Rachel again?"

"Well, actually, your mother is looking for you," Hiram says guiltily.

"Oh. If you don't mind, I really don't want to speak with her or my sister right now," Quinn mutters. "Would you tell them that they can just go home and I'll call them?"

Hiram frowns in disapproval. "I suppose—"

"Thanks!"

She rushes off to Rachel's room before the man can finish, determined to focus on Rachel.

* * *

Quinn sneaks in, delighting in the fact that everyone from glee club was gone, except for Shelby and Leroy. The two whisper quietly and look up in surprise when Quinn enters, and freezes, like a deer caught in headlights. She flounders uneasily in the doorway until Leroy finally speaks up.

"Visiting again?"

"Yes."

"Have you gone home, Quinn?" Shelby asks. Quinn bristles irritably, adjusting the ice pack with her hand.

"Did Schuester tell you about—"

"Yes, and I think you should talk to your mother," Shelby suggests.

"I _think_ I'm fine," Quinn snaps. "I don't _want_ to talk to her and I don't _have_ to!"

Shelby opens her mouth to respond when Rachel, woken from a light sleep, moves slightly in her bed.

"I want her to stay," Rachel says, nearly asleep again.

Shelby sends her a warning look but acquiesces, and Quinn walks to the couch and reclines.

"Quinn?" Rachel calls.

"Yes?"

"Promise you'll talk to me tomorrow? About..." Rachel trails off expectantly.

Feeling Leroy and Shelby stare at her, unable to resist Rachel's adorably sleepy question, Quinn sighs in resignation, knowing Rachel won't give up until Quinn admits defeat.

"Sure," Quinn murmurs.

Quinn settles into her makeshift bed, ignoring the inquisitive looks until Rachel yelps suddenly.

"What happened to your face?" Rachel shrieks. Shelby covers a laugh. Leroy tries not to smile.

Quinn blushes. "Um...I jumped Santana—"

"Why, pray tell? What the _hell_—pardon my language, Daddy, Mom—would you do that?"

"She got me angry?" Quinn offers, more like a question, and a chuckle escapes Leroy.

"We'll talk about this tomorrow," Rachel snaps dangerously, and Quinn shrinks into the couch.

Since when is _she _Rachel's little bitch? Early summer, her brain yells in frustration. When Rachel somehow infiltrated your thoughts and messed you up?

"Okay," she squeaks, alarmed at the intensity of Rachel's anger, and finds herself agreeing to Rachel's demand. "Goodnight."

The last thing Quinn hears is Rachel's furious mumbling, Shelby's whispers, and Leroy's laugh.


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: Update, gasp! Just kidding. I'm a bit disappointed with this chapter (it's a bit repetitive), but I hope it sounds okay. I watched Special Education and realized that somebody really needs to gave Schuester a smack in the face. Um, let's all have a free-for-all bullying session on Rachel. But it's totally different from Kurt's problem. Rachel's my favorite character, why are they so rude to her? She just needs one friend, besides Puck (Puckleberry! Loved that! I loved the Kurt and Rachel friendship too, but it's a little late, don't you think?) to support her. Preferably Quinn. ;) Enjoy the chapter, readers.**

**Disclaimer: Don't own Glee, sadly. If I did, it would be wicked different. **

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* * *

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Quinn wakes up, confused—was it raining in her dream, or was she swimming? She blinks, and her eyes focus on a regretful Brittany in front of the hospital couch, an empty water bottle in her hands. Quinn sighs heavily and hears a loud, raucous bark of laughter. _Santana_. Obviously.

"Santana made me do it," Brittany mumbles apologetically. "She's too hot..."

"It's okay, Britt. I need a wakeup call anyway."

"Good," Rachel says, and Quinn looks up, seeing the diva sitting up, arms crossed. Great.

Quinn sees a smug Santana sitting next to Rachel's bed, as if they're friends. _Fantastic_.

"Santana just filled me on some interesting news," Rachel continues primly.

"Really," Quinn raises an eyebrow at Santana, who just grins tauntingly in return. Quinn takes ultimate—albeit guilty—pride at the fact that Santana looks like absolute crap. She's sporting a similar black eye, with a split lip and a few bruises along her tanned arms. Serves her right for challenging me, Quinn thinks before she can stop herself.

(Santana shouldn't have tried, though.)

"Yes. She informed me of an altercation between the two of you last night."

"Well, technically, it was this morning, at like, seven—"

"Quinn!" Rachel yells. "Why the hell would you attack her for no reason?"

Quinn bites back a retort, dozens of insults jumping to her brain before she remembers that insults and jeers started this whole thing. Her shame, her sadness, all of it.

She shrugs.

"She deserved it," Quinn says at last. Santana scoffs. Brittany looks gloomy.

"That's hardly rational," Rachel snaps. Quinn glares. Yeah, she wasn't to be bossed around again. Even if Rachel Berry had a Jedi-mind trick on her natural defensive instincts.

"Fine, take her side. After all that," Quinn fumes, and Rachel's face whitens, stricken with fear. "I hope you two are very happy together," Quinn mocks resentfully. Brittany's fingers wind tightly and determinedly around her wrist as she rises, preventing her from leaving.

"Call off Brittany," Quinn seethes. "I won't hurt her."

Santana smirks. "Nah. She's your friend, do it yourself. Besides, you getting angrier is priceless."

"I'd always knew you'd stab me in the back," Quinn sneers, yanking her hand from Brittany's grip, as the other blonde looks down dejectedly. "I thought we were okay, Santana. Hiding out like that. I guess you didn't mean it. I'm surprised you made it this far with Brittany."

"Quinn," Rachel begs desperately, nearly getting out of bed. Quinn strides closer as Rachel settles again, remembering her earlier promise. Rachel realizes the fact that she is Rachel's real friend, as of the library. Santana's just here for show. Quinn actually cares. "I'm—"

"I'll be here for you," Quinn says firmly, shooting Santana an icy glare which is quickly returned. "But I can't with them around. I'll be back later—call me when they're gone."

She leaves the room, ignoring the stupid, irritating desire to stay with Rachel, and heads home, not-at-all ready to face the inquisition waiting for her. She fishes her phone from her sweats pocket, dialing.

"Mandy, hey. Can you pick me up?"

* * *

Quinn rushes up upstairs before Mandy can unbuckle her seatbelt, and jumps into the shower. She wraps a towel around her body as she shuts off the water, appreciating it after the grimy day before. She winces and counts—it's been exactly twenty four hours since the first shot. Quinn wipes the steamed mirror with her palm. Pale, ghastly features, spectral hazel eyes, and a lack of fire in her expression. Quinn doesn't recognize herself. The stranger peers at her as just intently.

The purple bruise around her eye is still there, but the swelling had gone down a bit.

Her breath fogs the glass again as Quinn searches for a familiar feeling as she stares in her reflection. She doesn't remember looking so...lost. Empty, disconnected—like she's a ghost.

Quinn wonders if Jacob is a ghost. Will he haunt her thoughts forever, just like he said he would?

(Hmm. Probably a poltergeist, if she had to guess.)

She tries to guess what people see her as. She has all these different facets and doesn't know which one she currently should be. There's pre-babygate Quinn, using Finn as a status symbol and a total bitch. Then babygate Quinn, full of regret and actually having real friends in glee club. Closer to the day, post-babygate Quinn, regaining her title, still in glee but lacking the closeness the baby gave her...and now? Confused, desperate, traumatized Quinn, holding on to her HBIC title and sanity and religion by her fingertips because Jacob Ben Israel screwed her for life, for he was the only one in McKinley High with the guts to point out that she was wrong.

Who was she now? Who _should_ she be? Who did she _want_ to be?

She can only recognize anger. She's never truly tapped into it—she used to being cool and collected, in a way only a real ice queen can and letting others do her dirty work. Her long buried, hidden anger simmers beneath the surface, waiting to be unleashed. It's nearly uncontrollable now—fighting Santana proved that. She can't handle her emotions anymore. She's angry for a lot of things; her persistent conscious, her guilt and remorse, her exposed vulnerability when she is used to a front, and the way she doesn't feel like herself anymore.

Quinn feels like she's in a void. Vacant, desolate, _hollow_.

The worst part of it all was that she didn't want to be Quinn Fabray anymore. She didn't want to carry the shame, the resentment, and the bottled up feelings that she used to ignore. Why couldn't she just start over? Reborn, reincarnated, something, made into a clean, happy, wholesome person who won't fuck up like she did a hundred times over. Then she remembers she can't believe in that. It's not Christian. Quinn slams her fist against the wall. Her identity sucked.

(Teenage angst sucked, too.)

"Quinn," Judy calls, making her blanch in surprise. "Will you come downstairs?"

Quinn flits into her room, throwing on jeans and an old t-shirt and descends the stairs.

Her mother and sister sit in the dining room, waiting patiently for her, and she's reminded so acutely of old family dinners that she wants to scream. She bites her tongue and sits down. Judy looks sad. Mandy looks pitying. They know not say anything about her injuries.

"Honey," Judy starts. "How can I—how can _we_, fix this?"

"What's to fix?" Quinn replies coldly.

"You," Judy says tearfully. "I can just see you turning into him, Quinnie. Cold, ruthless, and—"

"I'm already those things," Quinn barks. "Ask anyone at school."

"Stop it," Mandy snaps. "Mom's here, Quinn. She's trying to be different from Dad."

"And?"

"She's trying to help," Mandy grounds out between clenched teeth.

"I know!" Quinn shouts, standing up so fast she sends the chair flying backwards, shaking with fresh rage. "Everyone's trying to help! All anyone has been doing is trying to talk to me, get me to open up and spill my guts like a pathetic loser! I don't need this, I just want to be normal again! All of you give me these sad looks, like I can't handle myself! Just stop! I'm sick of it!"

"Quinn—"

"Don't Quinn me, Mandy! You don't know anything about me anymore! Where were you when I needed someone? You were cozy in Princeton, living it rich while I was homeless! Mom and Dad kicked me out—stop crying, Mom—and I had to live in three different houses because my friends knew I had no where else to go! Don't you get it? Stop trying understand me!"

"Calm down," Mandy retorts. "You're acting like a kid!"

"Oh, I wish," Quinn bellows. "I wish I could rewind the years but I can't!"

"Quinnie, please," Judy beseeches, tears spilling from her eyes, "we love you. We just want you to be happy again. We aren't insulting you, we want to help you get back to your old self."

"My old self disappeared the second Jacob shot himself," the youngest Fabray counters, lost in her uncontainable fury, and stalks out the door, grabbing her car keys. "I'm out of here."

Quinn guns the engine, speeding away from her house and her family's despair.

Quinn drives mindlessly, letting her thoughts turn blank and empty. Just like her heart.

She stops on the side of the road, listening to the car turn off and exhaling deeply.

She shouldn't lash out. But people shouldn't provoke her. She hasn't had time to process.

She extracts her phone from her pocket, turn it over in her fingers before composing a text.

* * *

_Hello._

Rachel looks away from the television and reaches for her cell phone curiously.

Quinn?

_Hi_, she replies.

_How are you?_

Rachel smiles in surprise. Quinn certainly wants to keep her wellbeing intact.

_Since the last two hours you've seen me?_

_A lot of things can happen in a few hours_, Quinn answers. Then she curses.

_I suppose. I feel the same as earlier, except more antsy to leave. Hospitals are horrible._

_I'll say_, Quinn writes. _Imagine giving birth._

Rachel laughs aloud and Hiram, sitting on the couch as he reads, looks up in question.

"Something Quinn texted me," his daughter explains. "She wanted to know how I was."

"That's sweet of her," Hiram remarks.

Rachel squints at her newest text. _Can I visit later?_

_Sure. Mi cuarto es su cuarto._

_Thanks, Rachel._

Rachel grins and returns to her television, and miles away, Quinn smiles to herself.

* * *

After making a quick stop at her house (stop, as in parking a block away, climbing through her bedroom window like a desperate ninja, packing a bag full of clothes and other necessities before sneaking back out), Quinn finds her car sitting in front of Mercedes's house, debating whether she should dare ask to stay. Mercedes and her family were very generous last year, but Quinn doubts if she should push it. Their friendship had fizzled slightly, reduced to light conversation and smiles, but lacking the heart-to-heart talks. She can't think of anyone else—Santana hates her guts, Brittany would definitely have Santana over, Puck was a no (too much awkwardness and shared sadness), and Rachel would probably been in the hospital a lot longer. Quinn sighs.

A knock on her window interrupts her thoughts.

"Quinn?"

"Hey," Quinn answers softly, as Mercedes smiles.

"What are you doing here? Last I heard, you were visiting Rachel."

"I was," Quinn murmurs. "I left to shower and change at my house, and I kind of had a huge fight with my sister and my mom...I wouldn't ask, but I was wondering if I could crash here for a few days...if that's okay with you, I mean, I could find someone else if your parents say no—"

"It's perfectly okay," Mercedes laughs. "You sound like our favorite diva, you know that?"

Quinn blushes. "Sorry."

"You can take my brother's room. He's still away. I'm pretty sure my mom won't care."

Mercedes opens the back door and shoulders Quinn's duffel bag, and beckons her into the house. Quinn locks her car and follows, and Mrs. Jones is at the kitchen table, sorting out bills and writing checks. Her expression shifts a little, but her smile is sincere and polite as Quinn enters.

"Hello, Quinn. It's nice to see you again."

"Hi, Mrs. Jones. Same here."

"Can Quinn stay here a few days, Mom?" Mercedes asks. "She had a fight with her family."

Mrs. Jones looks at her, and Quinn can see the knowledge that swirls behind her eyes. She was there too, she saw, like all the parents and other students milling in the parking lot, what Quinn looked like just after, covered in Jacob's blood and carrying her shame like a heavy cross on her shoulders. The sympathy begins to emerge, but Mrs. Jones, more tactful than Quinn has seen anyone act, hides her emotions and simply nods, smiling encouragingly. Quinn wants to thank her profusely—she's the first parent that has not tried to _help_ or _be here if you want to talk_ to Quinn and it makes Mercedes's house even more welcoming and nice than it's ever been.

"Thank you."

"Let's head upstairs," Mercedes suggests, and Quinn follows obediently. Mercedes deposits the bag in her brother's old room, and Quinn trails after her as they continue into Mercedes's room. Quinn sits in the desk chair and Mercedes on her bed, sort of like they used to.

Mercedes justs watches her as Quinn tries to pretend she doesn't notice it.

"I know you've probably heard this from everyone, especially Santana," Mercedes begins; Quinn winces—Brittany probably told everyone—"but I'm here if you want to talk."

"I might take you up on that, maybe," Quinn agrees. "When I'm ready."

Mercedes is quiet again, and Quinn preps for an inevitable inquiry.

"I'm just wondering, Quinn...you don't have to answer, but what was it like?"

"What was what like?"

"Jacob threatening you," Mercedes offers curiously, but uncomfortable of the anger Quinn could show at the query. "Being in that situation that everyone secretly dreads when they walk into school, the one you hear about on the news but never really think it could happen to you."

Quinn ponders the question thoughtfully, refusing to let her automatic indignation and irritation cloud her brain. This was Mercedes, just wondering, not Santana, pushing for answers. Quinn could let this breach on her vulnerability slide. What was it like? What words could she arrange to fully emphasize her terror and immobilizing fear and stomach dropping urge to scream?

"I don't know," she murmurs finally. "It's like...your heart stops, and you're wondering if your life will really add up to this point. You think, is it my destiny to die here and not make a mark on the world like your parents hope you to? I started to wonder if it was fate or just chance."

Mercedes nods, understanding.

"What's worse," Quinn blurts out, "is that I was worried about Rachel too."

"I would too," Mercedes says. "If it was anyone in glee with me. Especially Kurt. Heck, I'd be scared for a random stranger bleeding out next to me, if I was you."

Quinn flinches visibly, realizing she's said a little too much and Mercedes fidgets.

"Sorry, I didn't mean to—"

"It's okay," Quinn sighs. "I just...everyone's been pushing and pushing, I just don't want to talk."

"I get it. Whenever you're ready, just like me know, okay?"

Quinn nods gratefully and departs into her 'room', and lies down, content just to sleep.

* * *

Mercedes passes the open doorway of Quinn's new/old room, and sees the blonde sleeping.

She pauses in the hallway. She does miss the friendship of last year, where Quinn was completely open and sincere and just another person in glee, with the exception of carrying a child. Quinn's different now, Mercedes notices. She isn't the proud, cold, vindictive cheerleader of early sophomore year anymore. She was a cheerleader again, just subdued and enjoying her time in glee, a niche where she can truly be herself, even with the infamous uniform on her body.

With the shooting, Mercedes theorizes, Quinn has gone through another transformation.

Mercedes simply hopes this isn't one switch too many.

* * *

"I hope they're alright," Will comments.

Yes, this is one of the weirdest, slightly uncomfortable, and definitely awkward situations Will Schuester has been in. Currently, he sits across from Emma and Carl, the latter having invited him to have dinner with the couple earlier today. Carl certainly wants to check Will's relationship with Emma, but thankfully, has not made a remark about their previous, er, fling. Emma's happy, Will notices, so he's fine with that. Sure, he wants her, he loves her, but he'd rather have her getting better and in a healthier, equal relationship with someone who will treat her right. Will messed up a lot last year. His chance with Emma was gone, but he was okay with it, sort of.

But that doesn't mean he likes watching Carl flaunt it.

"I can't even imagine dealing with that," Carl agrees.

"I'll call them to my office when school starts up again," Emma offers, her eyebrows furrowing. "Any word from Figgins yet, Will?"

"No," he answers. "They're still working at school. But, Em, I don't think talking to Quinn or Rachel is a good idea just yet."

"Why not?"

Will shifts uncomfortably. "The club went to visit Rachel, and Quinn attacked Santana."

"Goodness," Emma mumbles. Carl looks surprised.

Will nods. "Santana said she was trying to help, but judging by Quinn's defensive attitude when she was pregnant and her tough personality, I don't see her opening up to anyone right now."

"That's common," Carl offers. "Anyone in a traumatic situation would do that. It's instinctual."

"How is Rachel doing?" Emma asks.

"Sunny as ever, when she spoke with us," Will laughs. Emma smiles.

"It's nice to know that didn't change."

"Let's hope nothing else changes too drastically," Will agrees.

* * *

"Hey," Quinn greets, shutting the door behind her. Rachel brightens.

"Hello, Quinn."

Quinn sits down at the end of the bed, handing Rachel a DVD. The Wizard of Oz. Rachel beams.

"This is so thoughtful, thank you!"

Quinn smiles slightly. "I figured you'd be bored already of hospital TV."

"I am, it's terrible here. My requests for music channels was ignored."

Quinn offers a small smile before turning her gaze to the window, and Rachel watches her.

"It's been a day," Rachel says absently.

"Feels like forever," was the murmured reply.

"Quinn?"

"Yeah."

"You can talk to me, you know," Rachel says. "Mercedes or Kurt or someone else close to you might have already said 're friends, friends talk about...things. I'm a good listener."

"I know, and yes, Mercedes has offered too. Thank you, but I'm not ready."

"I understand," Rachel acquiesces.

"Do you?" Quinn questions with sudden sadness. "Do you, really?"

Rachel panics. "I understand your hesitance to confide in me is what I meant. No one will truly comprehend what you're going through, but—"

"I'm not going through anything," Quinn interrupts.

Rachel senses the simmering denial behind Quinn's sentence and knows enough to back off.

"Sorry."

"It's nothing...everyone's just suffocating me today," Quinn mutters, clenching a fist. "My mother, my sister, Santana, Mercedes...I just wish I could block everything out."

"You don't have to worry about me interrogating you," Rachel promises. "I'm different."

"You are," Quinn says mysteriously, her eyes holding something back.

Rachel doesn't comment, not voicing her question Quinn's remark, instead tentatively holding the DVD. Quinn stands up, places the disk in the player before returning to her seat. Rachel pats the space next to her, Quinn scoots back, so they're lying down together. Quinn's shoulder presses against Rachel's, the bars on the bed forcing them to be close. Rachel doesn't mind. As the film begins, Quinn admires it, half-wishing she'll wake up like Dorothy does in the end.

To wake up and realize it all had been a dream, she thinks enviously. She wouldn't be that lucky, not ever.

* * *

Rachel wakes up the next morning to find Quinn watching the news, grim and angry.

"...still waiting on a final count, but our guesses are at least a dozen students were killed," Andrea reports, a sympathetic, slightly condescending look on her face. Rod nods, wearing his solemn expression. "Our hearts go out to the kids at McKinley, right here from WOHN."

Quinn loathes them deeply. Fake, fake, fake. They don't get it. They just read off the teleprompter, smiling and frowning those patented expressions and not really understanding what exactly happened. People were shot, Quinn fumes. People they know in this small town are dead and all they do is sit in front of their desks, staring into the camera because they have a paycheck waiting for them if they look extra gloomy about the shooting. Quinn wants to scream.

"Quinn?" Rachel questions, placing a warm hand on Quinn's back. Quinn stiffens.

"Morning," Quinn grinds out, scooting further away. Rachel drops her hand.

Rachel swallows her disappointment and silently vows to try harder at cracking Quinn's icy exterior. She couldn't be an ice-queen all the time. Beth had warmed her before, so Rachel could too. Quinn stares blankly the television, conveniently flipped to a new channel, and Rachel sighs.

"I don't like them either," she murmurs. "He was a judge at Sectionals, remember?"

"Yes."

"I heard that Miss Sylvester dated him. I find that both repulsive and nauseating."

"True."

"Quinn," Rachel pleads. "Don't freeze me out."

Quinn just looks at her, examining her eyes closely, searching for something.

"I know I'm not the ideal confidante. I ruined your relationship with Finn, and probably Puck too. Our friendship is delicate at best anyway, and I know I probably will annoy you even more with my habits and mannerisms. But I'm the only one who was with you, who's the closest to you after that. I don't have the same experience, and we'll both cope differently, but please, don't push me away like you did to Santana. I care about you, Quinn. I want you to know that. I'm around to listen, whenever you're ready. You need space. I get that. No one else does like I do."

"Mercedes tried," Quinn confesses, twisting the bedsheet in her hands. "But I don't see myself opening up to her. I told her I would, but...she'll never understand like you would."

"I know."

"Just promise you'll wait. Wait until I can handle talking about it," Quinn begs.

"I promise."

Quinn calms slightly, and manages a smile, to which Rachel returns hesitantly.

"Now, I'll find us some more movies to watch. I'll be right back."

* * *

It's a few more days before the final tally is announced. Quinn sits at Rachel's side.

Principal Figgins stands in front of the cameras with the Chief of Police, looking careworn and depressed. Quinn's grip tightens painfully on Rachel's fingers as they both listen. Hiram and Leroy watch from the door, while Shelby is at her house with Beth, also watching intently as she texts Rachel.

One thousand students were enrolled at McKinley just two weeks ago.

Today, more than a week after the shooting, the number is diminished.

"...in total, there were twenty one students killed in the shooting, including the gunman, with at least a dozen others injured. School will resume on Monday, with extra security. A memorial service will be held at the end of the week, to mourn of the children who were lost to us."

Quinn's other hand strains on her cross necklace, leaving harsh, red indents on her palm.

"We're certain that the boy was bullied during his time here at McKinley," the Chief continues, his mouth set in a firm line. "By whom has not been determined. In the future, Principal Figgins will create a non-bullying committee, with full backing by any parents that wish to donate money to the cause. As a town, I hope we can work together to make our schools safer, better places."

The feed is cut off, switching to Quinn's least favorite newcasters.

"Such a tragedy," Rod notes, shaking his head.

"I'll be praying for the deceased," Andrea promises somberly, and changes the topic.

Quinn bares her teeth in frustration. When will everyone admit they don't understand it?

"Quinn?" Rachel squeaks. "Would you mind releasing my hand, please?"

Quinn drops it as if she was burned, mumbling an apology.

"I'm just going to get some air," Quinn murmurs, as Rachel grabs her arm.

"Stay here tonight," the brunette says, and Quinn simply nods.

"Let me call my mom, I'll be back in a bit."

Leroy's eyes follow the cheerleader out of the door in concern, and he turns to Rachel.

"She can talk to me, you know. If she likes. No charge, obviously."

"I don't think she'll talk to anyone soon, Daddy," Rachel sighs.

"Except you," Hiram reasons.

"Not yet," Rachel returns. "Hopefully she will eventually."

"She might need a little push," Leroy states cautiously. "Don't let her close herself off completely. Then it'll be impossible to break through her defenses. Keep at it. She needs someone, someone like you to just sit quietly with her. She probably won't speak to you, but sometimes, she'll want someone with her, just to be there when she needs it."

"I already promised Mom," Rachel says. "I'll help Quinn to the best of my ability."

* * *

Quinn sits on the railing outside the hospital, watching her legs swing, skimming the ground.

"Quinn?"

How many people planned on finding her in the oddest of places? Quinn internally wonders.

"Hello, Ms. Corcoran."

Shelby smiles slightly, leaning about two feet away, a comfortable distance.

"How are you?"

"Fine."

"Do you need anything?"

Quinn's gaze finds Shelby's, and she stares. She needs a lot. Somone to be quiet with. Someone to talk to about anything, a place to be alone, a place where she won't be alone, someone to love her wholly, despite her numerous faults, and quite simply, silence so she can think in peace.

"Can we just...sit out here, for a litte while?"

Shelby looks shocked at her honest answer but recovers quickly, nodding, and lifts her eyes to the sky, admiring the stars.

Quinn silently asks for guidance as she copies Shelby's example, and prays for the courage to walk into school come Monday morning.


	5. Chapter 5

Okay.

Okay.

She's okay, she's definitely got it this time.

No, not okay.

Quinn makes another move to leave her car, and for the umpteenth time, recoils into her seat.

She sits in the parking lot, eyeing the hesitant steps of returning students as they enter the building. She's noticed Artie arrive first, followed several minutes later by Mike and Tina, and Mercedes had met Kurt by his SUV, as Finn, carpooling with Kurt, had trailed behind them. Quinn exhales deeply. It shouldn't be this hard. It was just a day at school. One day, which will turn into a week, and if she can get through a week, she can get through the rest of the year, right?

Hopefully.

(She doubts it.)

Quinn tugs her Cheerios duffel bag closer to her, tightening her grip on the strap. She pulls out her keys from the ignition, unbuckles her seatbelt, and grabs the doorhandle.

Do or die. Do or die.

Probably not the best analogy, she internally grimaces.

Quinn grits her teeth and gets out of the car as if it was ablaze and slams the door. Rolling her eyes at her own cowardice—she's Quinn Fabray, she's not afraid of anything (lie)—and walks through the parking lot, swallowing her nerves and anxiety and opens the door, hurrying up the stairs. Her breath catches painfully in her chest as she sees Rachel's locker, still unopened by the owner, the floor clean and gleaming beneath her feet. The blood's all gone, yes, but Quinn can practically see it, the murky puddle that Rachel left in her desperate crawl to the library. Quinn's eyes find the library doors, still roped off with police tape.

She hears whispers and a few condolences, students passing her in an array of color and sound.

She just can't look away, even if she hears the bells ring once, twice, three times.

She still has her duffel in her hand, still frozen in place, unable to look away from the door, the room that changed so much about her. Rachel almost died in there, she almost died in there, Jacob actually died in there. She blanches and removes her gaze, ignoring the stream of curious teenagers on their way to classes and decides to skip, rationalizing that she won't be able to concentrate anyway. She steps backward, her hand behind her until she reaches the opposite wall and just slides down, her legs stretched out in front of her and her abandoned bag on her left.

Homeroom passes, and stragglers send her confused looks before hastening onward.

She dimly listens to the announcements as first period begins, as Figgins tells them of a mandatory assembly about the importance of speaking up about bullying on Wednesday. Quinn knows she won't be going, mandatory or not—it's not her scene anyway. It's a waste of her time, too. She knows the basics—don't be mean to the weirdo, he's crazy suicidal and will probably show up and massacre you in revenge. Oh, wait a minute, that already happened.

Quinn wonders if Louis XVI felt like this before he was beheaded. Knowing his people despised him, imprisoning him for treason against France and then gleefully watching the guillotine descend and sever the neck to the head of the uncaring ruler who had betrayed them so easily.

Quinn almost laughs. She sounds nearly as dramatic as one Rachel Berry.

Rachel won't be in school until Thursday, when the doctors will finally discharge her from the hospital. She'll have to wear a cast along with a temporary use of a wheelchair, followed by crutches and later, physical therapy to reteach the muscles their use again. Rachel had explained it all in detail, with an equally delighted Shelby interjecting information they both learned from the doctor. Quinn can imagine Rachel's relieved expression, because although her healing will be tedious and hard, she'll still be able to dance in the future, and will recuperate completely. Her inevitable future, the brunette had grinned. _Broadway_.

Rachel guesses it'll be several months before she'll walk on her own again, but that's okay, they got there just in time. She's lucky, very, _very_ lucky.

Other students injured in the shooting are still in the hospital, recovering slowly.

Quinn's stomach twists with guilt. She won't visit them—Rachel's her only concern, and if she does visit, she'll only feel her despair increase tenfold.

Marie Antoinette had it easy, Quinn thinks glumly, now sitting Indian-style on the floor. The Queen of France was beheaded, didn't have to live the shame of her country's hatred and thirst for revenge. Marie Antoinette escaped a lifetime of misery with the simple swing of a guillotine, while Quinn remains unharmed and lost in regret. Anne Boleyn, too. One heave of the executioner and she was gone from her husband's loathing, and with him, England as well.

Quinn wonders when she turned into such a History geek as another bell rings shrilly.

"Hey," a voice greets her, and Quinn looks up, seeing a tentative, smiling Tina.

"Hey."

"It's time for glee," she says gently, and Quinn studies her hands.

"How long have I been sitting here?"

"All day," Tina answers. "We've seen you, but you didn't look up. Figgins didn't mark you absent, though. Mr. Schue convinced him to let you sit there as long as you needed."

"Oh."

Tina doesn't say anything else, and Quinn sighs before standing up. Tina shoulders her discarded Cheerios bag.

"I've got it," the other girl says, smiling encouragingly.

"Thank you, Tina."

The two walk together to the choir room, and Tina goes first, dropping the duffel by the door. Quinn pauses in the threshold, and ten pairs of eyes snap quickly to her face as a silence falls over the normally chatty group before starting up again. Quinn forces her feet to move and sits down uncomfortably, slightly separated from the others. She doesn't want them too close—it's awkward and she feels weird without someone who she trusts at her side, which at the moment is Rachel.

As Mr. Schuester opens his mouth to talk to her front the front of the room, with the rest of the group automatically quieting to listen, Quinn's spidey-annoyed-not taking bullshit from anyone-senses tingle and an sharp, defensive sentence escapes her lips before she can stop it.

"Spare me a pep talk," she snaps.

Mr. Schuester isn't angry, he just nods like he was expecting that and starts talking about Sectionals. A few incredulous glances are shot her way, but no one says anything (they wouldn't dare). Quinn starts texting Rachel, which makes a small, pleased smile settle on her mouth.

_I just lashed out at Schue...sort of._

_Normally, I would scold you for your lack of respect to an authority figure, specifically our glee coach. But even with recent events of his support and kindness during this tough time, his biting remarks don't really fade from memory like he would expect them to. So, well done, Ms. Fabray._

_I'll talk to you later, Rach. I have to go pretend to sing now._

_QUINN FABRAY, YOU_—is all Quinn reads before she closes the text, hiding her laugh as she joins the whispering group near the piano, avoiding eyes and fixing her gaze on the piano keys and allowing the promise of downtime with a non-pushy Rachel to get her through practice.

A buzzing of her phone interrupts Quinn as she examines the floor with rapt attention during another Schuester monologue (didn't they all scold Rachel for babbling? This man could compete with her, seriously), finding it far more interesting than talking to her friends or listening. She presses the glowing TALK button and holds it to her ear.

"Hello?"

"Quinn," Mandy answers, her tone slightly frigid. "I just wanted to say hi."

"Hi," Quinn says automatically, and warms up when she hears her sister grudgingly laugh.

"Okay, I hate how you can just do that," Mandy complains. "It's like, impossible to be angry with you, ever. Mom is a little harder to win over, you know. She's still upset."

Quinn frowns. Sure, she had reacted a little harshly. Storming out of the house...justified, because she's a teenager and allowed to have temper-tantrums occasionally. Staying over with Mercedes on purpose to avoid Judy Fabray altogether? Severe. Quinn had made sure to give her mother peace of mind, informing her of her whereabouts but usually ending the call before her mother could beg for her to return home. Quinn loathes the noise of her mother's crying. She used to hear it at night sometimes, when her father was around.

"I know," she acknowledges at last. In her peripheral vision, she sees eavesdroppers.

"I think it's been long enough," Mandy urges. "Please. I miss you. She misses you."

"You understand why I left, right?"

"Yes. We'll back off, I promise. Scout's honor."

"Okay," Quinn agrees. "I'll finish up here and get my stuff. I'll see you around...six."

Mandy assents and hangs up, and Quinn tosses her phone on her chair.

"It's rude to listen on conversations," she barks without turning around, and hears movement, hurried discussion, and gossip immediately begin with her obvious irritation. Quinn snatches her bag and phone, spinning on her heel and leaving glee practice without another word, ignoring the calls of Mr. Schuester for her to come back. She won't deal with this, she doesn't have to.

* * *

Quinn leaves Mercedes's house, still thanking Mrs. Jones on her way out, and heads home.

Mandy's sitting on the porch when she arrives, and offers a hesitant grin.

"Moody again? I don't miss teenage angst at all."

"Some people need to mind their own business," Quinn grumbles.

"Did they ask you to talk?"

"No...more like, intense observation, like I'm terminal or something."

Mandy tilts her head to the side. "Well...I know you're not talking about it. But you'll have to convince Mom of that on your own. She's trying to understand why you won't open up to her. She thinks it's because when she turned you away last year when's she trying so hard to be your mom again. Just reassure her that it's not her, it's you—I mean...well, you know what I mean."

Quinn raises an eyebrow. "Thanks, Dr. Crowe."

Mandy's grin reappears. "I'll be a doctor someday. I just dropped out of law school."

"What?" Quinn yelps. "Why would you—how could...Mandy, but—"

"I'll give you a clue," Mandy jokes. "He paid for it."

"Oh," Quinn exclaims, comprehension dawning. "Dad."

"Correct, Quinnie," Mandy teases, dodging Quinn's retaliatory punch to the arm. "Dad wanted another lawyer in the family for his prestigious firm and I was 'right' for the job, being the oldest kid. But since all this happened with you and Mom...I want to be closer to you guys. I'm twenty-three years old, and the thought of being an uptight loser defending criminals—because yeah, Dad picks those ones—is horrifying. I want to be around whenever you need me."

Quinn smiles gratefully as Mandy tries not to blush openly.

"Thanks."

"I'm going to be a psychiatrist. I still want to help people," Mandy explains.

"I'm sure you'll be the best one in Lima besides Leroy Berry."

Mandy slings an arm over her sister's shoulders and steers her inside.

Judy looks up from her desk, glasses perched on her nose, and her eyes widen in surprise.

"Hey, Mom," Quinn says, after a nudge from Mandy, who vanishes up the stairs. "Can we talk?"

* * *

Rachel is sleeping by the time Quinn visits, a discarded magazine on the table. Quinn sits in the chair by the bed, finding a note from Leroy to Rachel, explaining that he has gone to work and that Hiram will check in with her periodically. Quinn assumes Shelby is still with Beth in Akron.

"...Kansas," Rachel mumbles. Quinn's head snaps up in surprise and a smile spreads on her face.

Rachel talks in her sleep?

"What?" Quinn questions, trying to prompt a response. Rachel frowns slightly.

"Not in Kansas," Rachel murmurs, and Quinn desperately wants to start laughing—did Rachel seriously dream about Broadway as well as in her waking state? Quinn finds it both hilarious and endearing. Rachel shifts in the bed and her eyes flutter open slowly, focusing on the room. She jumps a bit in seeing Quinn so close, but she brightens and an identical smile settles on her lips.

"Quinn, hi, how was your day at school? Glee? Did I miss anything?"

"Slow down, Dorothy," Quinn answers teasingly. "First, let's talk about you."

"Me?"

"Yup. I heard you say a few things before you woke up..."

Rachel turns pink. "Yes, my fathers have told me about that...unfortunate habit."

"I think it's cute," Quinn says, and Rachel's skin darkens imperceptibly.

"Anyway," the embarrassed brunette presses, "how was school?"

Quinn twists the magazine in her hands, not answering immediately. She doesn't want to worry Rachel, but she doesn't want to lie to her either. Rachel's eyes are kind and attentive, so Quinn just admits that she sat outside in the hallway in front of the library all day. Rachel frowns.

"Oh, Quinn...I should have been there."

"To do what? Hobble all over the place and get hurt even more than you already are?"

"No. I want to be there to support you, and vice versa."

Quinn's fingers tighten around the glossy paper. "I don't need support. You do."

"Physically, yes, but emotionally, that's an entirely different ma—"

"Rachel," the blonde reminds, an edge lingering on her words, "remember what you promised."

"Sorry."

"It's okay." (She means it. Rachel apologizes for her rudeness; others stubbornly offer _concern_.)

They lapse into silence, Rachel looking out the window and Quinn at the magazine until Rachel reaches over, her grasp like a hot iron to Quinn's skin while a quick jump in her pulse reacts to Rachel's gaze and touch, leaving her puzzled at such a strange response.

"I'm here when you need me, Quinn. I'll be back in school before you know it."

"I'll be pushing that wheelchair," Quinn returns, smiling faintly.

* * *

Her first/latest night back in her own home is unsettling. Mandy's just down the hall, after repeating the fact several times before finding something constructive to do. Judy is in the living room, watching her recorded shows and drinking juice—a healthy, better alternative to stress, her mother had explained, smiling her rarely shown megawatt, proud-of-herself grin (which makes Quinn happy)—while Quinn herself sits motionless in her room, as if seeing it for the first time.

She spent her first day sitting on the floor. Ridiculous. She's strong, she should be better.

Quinn stares at her ceiling, plastic glow-in-the-dark shapes still messily glued around the light. She was nine when she happily stuck them up there, standing on a stool, Mandy teasingly asking if she wanted to be an astronomer when she got older. Quinn had snottily replied no, she wanted to be an artist. The various shapes—moons, smiles, animals, and stars—still shine dimly in the darkness, unchanging even after seven years. Quinn wishes she wouldn't change, like them.

Half-heartedly, she wishes she could reverse time, jumping backwards a whole year, when things were simpler and she was a total bitch, ruling McKinley with an iron fist, an obedient boyfriend at her right side, two loyal lieutenants to her behind her, and a terrified student body shrinking away from her front because they're in the HBIC's way, which resulted in a slushie shower if caught of such an offense. No one offered support, they offered in stutters to avoid her entirely.

Last year, she didn't have a empty place in her heart for a mother's loss, she didn't have a crushing guilt on her shoulders, and she didn't have a head full of shame and regret and sadness. Last year, her heart was impenetrable, coated in unbreakable ice and protected by sneering insults and sharp sentences to the boy on her arm, who kept others away as quarterback. Last year, she wasn't thinking about a loser's death, the blood on her hands, both literally and metaphorically. Last year, she was cool and collected, nothing phasing her, not even guilt.

She won't change any further. She closes her eyes. She'll stay right here, suspended until she figures out how to disperse the remorse and heavy weights on her conscious.

* * *

Her breathing is ragged and desperate as she sits on the floor of the bathroom, a damp facecloth clutched in her hands. Quinn's eyes strain in the blinding glare of the lights, unaccustomed to it after sleeping for several hours. She had woken up so quickly, nearly tumbling out of bed, her heart in a frantic sprint and panic in her head with a scream bubbling in her throat, still seeing her nightmare over and over in front of her eyes. After scrambling out of bed and throwing up the minimal food in her stomach, she had sank to the floor, content to just stay there in isolation, between night and day where neither affected her.

She still can picture Rachel's bloodless, cold body on the library floor, the diva's eyes open and blank, staring at her, as if blaming her. Jacob was close to her feet, like an emancipated beggar to a merciless queen, a puddle of blood staining her white Cheerio sneakers and his beady, ugly gaze fixed on her as well, his lips curled into a triumphant sneer. She just couldn't move, she couldn't get away from either of them and both pairs of dead eyes bored holes in her body.

She doesn't want to leave her home. It's a sanctuary. It's distance and holds her secrets. At school, everyone knows Quinn Fabray's story. At home, she's just Quinn, plain and simple. No babygate drama, no envious glares, and no pitying stares. It's an escape from it all, too.

The clock reads 2:16AM and she rubs her eyes tiredly. She won't sleep anymore tonight, she'll find something else to do to occupy her brain until it jumps into school.

Quinn heaves herself to her feet and wanders downstairs.

* * *

Her second day starts easier. She's been ready for three hours, having nothing else to do, bag packed and something in her stomach so her mother doesn't worry. Mandy's still asleep—the fortune of the unemployed, out of college and living with a parent again. Quinn twirls her keys on her finger and steps out the door, closing it behind her and opening her car, stifling a yawn. Tina greets her timidly at her locker when she arrives at school and Quinn offers a small smile before heading off to class.

Her teachers are surprised to see her looking blank and ready to learn, but the open warning in Quinn's face makes them recoil and decide to call attendance instead of talking like a caring adult to a kid they know is having a hard time. She rolls her eyes and raises her hand, choosing not to talk if she doesn't want to.

Her Chemistry teacher—worst fucking _bitch_ in the whole school—doesn't appreciate her silence and pointedly asks her a question.

"Carbon," Quinn snaps.

"Yes. Carbon is the element present in all lifeforms...that makes start writing this _down_, people."

Her aggravation only gets worse throughout the day and she texts Rachel to calm down.

"Quinn?"

"What?"

Mr. Schuester looks exasperated. "Would you mind listening to the assignment?"

"If I have to, I suppose I could," Quinn quips, as an outburst of laughter comes from the back of the room.

Mr. Schuester's disapproval with her is apparent, but Quinn silently challenges him with her eyes to do something—would he dare send the troubled, poor and coping Quinn to the principal's office? Her teacher turns away, his back to her, uncapping his pen again to write conjugations on the board and Quinn hides her shame at his disappointment and instead shows off her smugness at not getting yelled at. Keep the mask on, she tells herself.

_Can't wait until you're in school again_, she sends to Rachel.

_Me too. Hospitals aren't as appreciative of my excellent scales as glee club is._

_I'll see you later._

_I'll be waiting_, Rachel writes, and Quinn drops her phone in her bag.

* * *

The rest of her day is somewhat easier, until she hears Lauren Zises talking with the AV club.

"...miss him a little, you know? He was an annoying pet or something."

"Excuse me?" Quinn snarls, but Lauren barely blinks at her appearance.

"I said that I—"

"I know what you said, Zises," Quinn hisses, knowing the hallway was eavesdropping, holding their breaths and conversations, "and I'm telling you _now_ to shut the fuck up."

"You can't tell me what to do, Fabray," Lauren replies lazily. "I don't care."

Quinn struggles for a counterattack as Lauren fixes a slight smile on her face, curious.

"You won't do anything," the girl says simply, tilting her head appraisingly to the side.

Quinn sneers. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"You don't control anything around here anymore," Lauren shrugs. "You're a disgrace now."

Quinn grips her books tighter to her chest as Lauren continues.

"You won't dare do anything else, not to me, not to other people like him because you're guilty," Lauren sighs, almost mockingly. "Your power's gone, Quinn. Deal with it."

Quinn's choking up under her fellow student's scrutiny and the stares of all others in the hallway and she sets her jaw before stomping around the corner and out of sight, finding a janitor's closet and ducking inside before anyone actually sees her cry. She tosses her bag and books to the floor, and kicks a mop bucket in frustration. She nearly destroys the closet, throwing things around and snapping a broom in half with her hands, the savage desire to express her anger—it's so lethal lately, she notices—momentarily sated with the vandalism. She finds a old seat and sinks into it, her eyes adjusting to the musty air and light and decides to cut class for the rest of the day.

She won't be able to focus anyway.

* * *

She's still seething with rage and tears when she gets to glee, and sits as far away from the others as possible, her arms tight over her chest. Mr. Schuester doesn't bother to engage her in the lesson, knowing her response, and she tunes him out, eyeing the wall instead. To no one's surprise, Mr. Schuester reuses a project and proposes duets, revealing his special hat-of-fate.

"Maybe the duck's in there this time," Brittany whispers excitedly. Santana smiles, patting her girlfriend's wrist.

"Mercedes, you get Mike," Mr. Schuester calls.

In the end, Tina and Brittany are paired, with Santana and Kurt, Finn and Quinn—she rolls her eyes as Finn squirms uncomfortably—Puck and Sam, while Artie is paired with Rachel. Mr. Schuester assures him the song isn't due until next week, and he knows Rachel will practice in any health. They all laugh and Quinn manages a slight quirk of her lips, a specter of a smile. Artie nods agreeably, and Quinn offers to drive him to the hospital to tell Rachel the news, since she's going there anyway.

"We have practice, Quinn remember?" Brittany interrupts.

"I'll get my dad to drive me, Quinn, that's okay," the boy says, nudging her arm. "Thanks."

Quinn nods and follows Santana and Brittany's retreating backs to the field.

She lags a little, showing up a few minutes after her friends, and a whistle blows shrilly.

"Fabray! I don't care if you're captain, take five laps!" Sue roars through her bullhorn.

The younger blonde shrugs, trotting off to do so and Sue wonders where Fabray's attitude went.

* * *

"A duet assignment?" Rachel repeats eagerly, accepting Artie's high-five. "Excellent!"

"It can be any song, too," Artie continues, smiling at her enthusiasm. "I know you have tons of ideas, right?"

She grins delightedly at his teasing tone. "Of course. And because we'll both be in wheelchairs—me, temporarily, sorry," as he waves off her apology, "and we can choreograph a routine similar to Proud Mary. I would hug you now for giving me creative control but I can't reach you."

"That's okay. Do you know how to fist-bump?"

"Unfortunately, yes. My fathers enjoyed the likes of Jersey Shore, which baffled me completely."

Artie laughs. "Well, I let you pick the music, and I'll start the moves. Sound good?"

"It does...by the way, how was Quinn today?" Rachel asks.

Artie scratches his head uneasily. "Well...she sort of had a face-off with Lauren Zises."

"What?"

"Yeah. Nobody knows the whole story. Lauren's too annoying to ask and Quinn's shut up like a clam lately. Some people heard that Lauren said something about Jacob and Quinn just snapped."

"Who wouldn't?" Rachel questions darkly. "He murdered students at our school."

"Some can adapt to loss, others can't," Artie replies. "Lauren must be immune to sadness."

"In that instance, she reminds me of the Tin Man," Rachel mutters, and Artie chuckles.

"Alright, let's get started. What do you have in mind for our duet?"

* * *

Quinn chooses to go home after practice, texting Rachel that she's tired and will visit the hospital tomorrow.

Rachel's response is long and excited—Artie's giving her free rein and she's elated.

_Who's your partner?_

_Finn_, Quinn writes, still irritated with the news.

_The hat of fate is clearly out-of-whack_, Rachel sends bracingly. _You'll be okay._

_I hope so._

Quinn shuts her phone off and takes a quick shower before going into her room to start her homework. She's squinting closely at Algebra problems when she decides a catnap—a few minutes, that's it—will be sufficient enough for her to finish and attain a good night's sleep. She's out quickly, a bit behind on her sleeping schedule from the incident this morning, but she dozes off easily, her textbook as a pillow and her lamp like a nightlight.

Someone's shaking her shoulder and she jerks awake, finding Mandy standing next to her.

"You okay, sis? You missed dinner," her elder blonde says.

"I'm fine," Quinn lies, picking her pencil off the floor. "I'll eat something later."

Mandy gestures to the clock on her way out the door, a stern look in her eyes. "It's close to ten. Better get some soon, if you eat late you'll get nightmares."

Quinn's left alone again and checks before mumbling, "I _already_ get nightmares."

She scribbles answers, half-doing the rest of her assignments and finding it past twelve.

When she knows she's the only one awake, she sneaks into her mother's bathroom, and opens the mirror, perusing the selection of orange containers and cold medicines.

_Anti-drowsy_, she reads and opens it, filling a plastic cup with water and closing the mirror door.

She studies her reflection—ghostly white face, a dulled gaze and purple bags under her eyes—and downs two of the pills before chasing them down with water. That'll keep her awake. No more nightmares if she doesn't sleep, right?


	6. Chapter 6

**Here's chapter six, everyone! Enjoy! Also, I'm having a few LiveJournal troubles. I'm totally lost and confused about how to actually use mine but I do want to learn how to post stories and stuff. If anyone wouldn't mind PM'ing any tips if/when you have time, it would be much appreciated. Thank you!**

**Disclaimer: Completely forgot to use it. I don't own _Glee_, obviously.**

**

* * *

**

Quinn's elbow slips off her binder and it clatters to the floor, jolting her from her trance.

Damn pills, she curses silently, blinking to clear her bleary eyes. Anti-drowsy, yeah right. She had made it until 4:15AM before she started to get sleepy, and spent the rest of the morning cleaning her room for something to do. She wasn't necessarily afraid of going to sleep, she just didn't want the hassle of nightmares, that's all.

She was under a lot of stress. No need to add more to her plate.

"Pay attention, Quinn," Mr. Schuester orders without turning around as he writes on the board.

"I am," she mutters irritably.

"Doesn't seem like it," Mr. Schue counters, and his eyes, along with a few others, move to her.

"Hmm," Quinn hums uncaringly, and catches his quiet huff of frustration, an action becoming extremely familiar with Mr. Schue as of late.

"Have you worked on your duet with Finn yet?"

Finn sees Quinn's pointed glower and the boy nods frantically, avoiding looking at Mr. Schue.

"Yup," her ex-boyfriend squeaks. "It's coming along nicely. It'll be...awesome," he concludes lamely, and Quinn hears Santana muffle a snicker, and fights one of her own.

Mr. Schue sighs. "Alright guys, practice is over for today."

Quinn skips out of the room and out into the hallway just seconds after the words escape her teacher's lips, ignoring both the suspicious murmurs and curious stares at her quick departure. She guesses correctly that Mr. Schuester will corner her eventually and attempt to offer one of his trusty heart-to-heart talks, but she doesn't want to deal with him at the moment, or at all. Her phone's already at her ear as she speeds out of the parking lot, her mind already on Rachel.

That happens more often than usual, she thinks, only slightly bemused at this revelation.

* * *

"..._desperately_ need to practice with Artie, as well as on my own," Rachel dictates, chattering happily as Quinn wheels her slowly down the hallway. Rachel continues to talk as she is waving goodbye to the disgruntled nurse assigned to her in the duration of her stay. The nurse sends Quinn an exasperated lift of her lips and Quinn grins back, shrugging, as if to say, _she's hopeless_. Rachel keeps prattling and Hiram is paces behind, discussing Rachel's treatment with another doctor, examining a clipboard. Shelby had called earlier, promising a visit when she could make time, along with Leroy who said he would see her at home, both sets of news delighting Rachel even further.

Quinn didn't complain—Rachel's smiles were a bright spot to alleviate her stupid day at McKinley High.

"So," Rachel inhales for breath, ending her monologue, "how was school for you, Quinn?"

"Boring," the blonde answers truthfully. "I'll be happier when you're there."

Rachel's smile is brighter than ever as they get to the parking lot.

Hiram beams behind an oblivious Quinn's back, and discreetly texts his husband.

_I'll give it two months_.

_It's on, Berry!_

_

* * *

_

Quinn feels a little queasy as she sits in her room, digesting her dinner—Rachel had demanded Chinese takeout, an indulgence she had been denied at Lima General, much to Quinn, Hiram, and Leroy's amusement—as the clock displays a late hour. She had left Rachel's with a promise to drive her to school the next day. The diva's smile—at both finally being home at last and the offer for a ride—was cheerful and lovely like a rising sun. Quinn remembers the obvious reflex to return it, which she did.

She silently realizes she doesn't like to smile lately, unless Rachel prompts it. Others don't have Rachel's natural ability to cheer her up.

Her eyes find her bag, tucked neatly by the door, along with her uniform and shoes.

She blinks lethargically, tiredness weighing down on her brain like an anvil. It wasn't rational to stay awake for this long, she knew that. But it wasn't okay with her to have nightmares about...things she'd rather avoid. Staying away from those memories would be beneficial to her happiness in the end, so as many nights of lost sleep wouldn't be detrimental to her homework or herself. She'll adjust. Wasn't that what college was like? All-nighters and functioning on uppers and pick-me-ups?

"Goodnight!" Judy calls from her room, and Quinn and Mandy respond in kind.

_Have a lovely night, Quinn! See you tomorrow!_ Rachel texts.

_'Night_, Quinn replies, and shuts her phone off.

She reaches for a coffee she had bought on the way home, sipping it slowly and turns to her desk.

Homework creates an excellent distraction, Quinn thinks wryly. Far better than sleeping.

* * *

"Are you okay, Quinn? You look pale," Rachel comments, searching for a song on the radio.

"Fine," Quinn murmurs, as her eyes strain uncomfortably at the morning glare of the sunlight. Rachel hums for the duration of the ride, soothing Quinn's nerves temporarily. They instantly pick up again upon their arrival to McKinley, and Quinn parks the car and shuts off the engine, and senses Rachel's gaze.

"You're worried," Rachel says quietly.

"I am," she allows, because's true.

"Why?"

"For you," Quinn explains, her keys digging tightly into her palm. "What if you get slushied? You'll still be ridiculed, and now, you're even _more_ defenseless in a wheelchair. Artie doesn't get any special treatment, neither will you. I'm scared they'll think of something worse, besides putting you in a portable toilet. What if they push you down the stairs? Or put you someplace where I can't find you? I can't be everywhere at once and I'm sure _something'll_ happen—"

"Quinn!" Rachel exclaims, interrupting the Cheerio mid-rant and smiling at her.

"What?" Quinn mumbles petulantly, turning red. "I'm just concerned, that's all."

"I know," Rachel laughs. "I get it. But you're wrong. I know it."

"How? Can you suddenly predict a slushie-free forecast?"

Rachel's expression remains placating and even. "They won't do anything, trust me."

"How do you know?"

"It's obvious," the brunette points out seriously, grasping Quinn's other hand. "Slushies will be a thing of the past, you'll see. They contributed to the bullying that instigated Jacob to...well, you know that part. I expect even David Karofsky will follow this course of action. He did most of them, remember?"

I remember, Quinn thinks mournfully. I also remember ordering a few attacks, too.

"Sure," she sighs, defeated. "Let's go."

Quinn gets out, pulling the chair from the backseat of her car and helping Rachel sit down like she was made of glass, meticulously careful of the awkward cast. Quinn slings her bag over her shoulder and has Rachel hold her own on her lap as she inspects the wheelchair for any sign of damage (you can't be too careful, she thinks, Lima wasn't remembered for their perfection) in addition to ensuring Rachel is sitting comfortably, or comfortably as you can be with a hurt leg and a forced stint as a near-invalid.

Rachel's eyes glitter in amusement as Quinn pretends not to fuss over her too obviously. Her eyes, mischievous now, twinkle mysteriously.

"You're still nervous, aren't you?"

Quinn doesn't answer, still distracted by the wheelchair until Rachel's touch stills her.

"Yes," she admits reluctantly. "Beyond nervous. My head hurts."

(No sleep contributes too.)

"We can't go into school yet, then."

"Why?"

Quinn looks up to meet her eyes and instead of doing so, Rachel just kisses her.

When Rachel pulls away, trying not to laugh at Quinn's flabbergasted (and bashful, because Rachel is _still_ awesome at kissing) look. Her smile widens.

"Okay, now we can go. You don't look nervous anymore. Now you just look surprised."

"I—you...wait a minute."

"_Quinn_, I need to get to the choir room," Rachel orders patiently, fixing her gaze upward, as if the blonde was terribly slow on the uptake and nothing out of the ordinary had just happened. "_Now_, if you wouldn't mind. Do I have to wheel myself there, or are you going to?"

Quinn rolls her eyes in reply (since when did Rachel become experienced in boggling someone's mind?) and pushes the chair forward across the gravel, guiding Rachel through the front doors and to her locker. Quinn determinedly ignores the tempting urge to look at the library doors, still off-limits to students with the police tape stretched diagonally across it. Rachel doesn't seem to notice, instead keeping up a steady lecture about glee and her duet along with a pacifying, warm touch on Quinn's wrist.

"Well, well, well," a voice drawls, and both turn to find a smirking Santana Lopez.

"Santana," Rachel greets.

"Nessarose," Santana counters, her smirk becoming impossibly smugger as Rachel nearly flails out of her wheelchair.

Quinn huffs.

"Y-you just made a _Wicked_ reference," Rachel breathes, amazed.

"Looked it up just for you, Shortie," Santana grins. "I know you'll be on cloud nine all day for it."

"My respect for you just skyrocketed."

"From where? The gutter?" Quinn questions, as Rachel bursts into giggles and Santana glares. Looks like they'll be on bad terms. Whatever, Quinn thinks.

"Green isn't a flattering color on you, Q."

"I like green. Frogs are green," Brittany adds unexpectedly, appearing on Quinn's right and dropping a kiss on Santana's cheek, earning an affectionate smile in return.

Brittany turns to Rachel and her eyes narrow suspiciously.

"You're like Artie now, Rach."

"Um, yes, that's right," Rachel answers, confused.

"Are you hiding a Transformer under there? We would have two robots in glee. That would be really cool."

"I'm sorry...no."

Brittany pouts and Quinn clears her throat at a passing Sue Sylvester.

"Charity work, Fabray?"

"No," Quinn snaps, her fingers taut and white on the wheelchair. "I'm helping a friend."

Sue continues on without comment as Becky materializes loyally at her side and Santana eyes Quinn with a speculative gaze while Rachel touches Quinn's wrist again, almost absently as she opens her purse to check her phone. The Latina's expression shifts into a calculated, knowing look and a sneer settles on her lips.

"Not now, Santana," Quinn warns.

"I didn't say anything, nothing at all," Santana leers, weaving her left hand into Brittany's right. "Let's get out of here, Britt. We should leave the happy couple alone."

Quinn's glare could've melted steel, and Rachel's hand on Quinn's arm again prevents retaliation. (Quinn wonders at the back of her mind how Rachel manages to do that.)

"She's trying to wind you up," the diva offers reasonably.

"I know."

"Ms. Sylvester and Santana are very alike. They're trying to find your weaknesses."

"I don't have any," Quinn mutters, shifting through Rachel's locker.

"That you know of," Rachel explains, accepting the books Quinn passes her.

"Why though? I assumed S and I were cool since the...shooting, but I don't understand her now. Well, we _did _fight in the hospital, so scratch that question."

Rachel pauses, organizing her thoughts.

"I'm sure Santana is merely egging you on for sport and her own ends, along with the urge to belittle you because she lost your rumble...and Ms. Sylvester has always been like that, but I believe she's testing you this year to prove your worth as Head Cheerio, due to recent events that would test your psyche and the ability to adapt."

Quinn leans her head on the closed locker surface, letting the cold metal soothe the anger in her brain. "Honestly, I don't care anymore."

"I thought you cared about your reputation," Rachel says.

Observant, chocolate eyes study Quinn's face knowingly, and Quinn makes up an excuse.

"I have new priorities."

"Such as?"

"Well...my sister and my mom, you, glee, homework, Cheerios...a reputation just doesn't make the cut anymore."

Rachel smiles one of Quinn's favorites smiles. "You ranked me before glee and Cheerios."

"So?"

"I just like your priorities," Rachel shrugs shyly, and Quinn hides a tired grin.

"Okay, Wheels. Let's get you to class."

* * *

"Hey."

"_Hey_."

"Quinn, wake up!"

Quinn jerks awake at a pencil tapping hard on her forehead, and Finn widens his eyes pointedly, warning her in case Mr. Schuester catches her asleep.

"Thanks," she whispers, and he nods, passing her a note.

_What about our song?_

_I haven't thought of anything yet. Have you?_

_No. But I thought we could do something from—_

"Do you two have something to share with the class?" Mr. Schuester asks irritably.

"Just our duet assignment," Finn blurts out. Quinn's too tired to yell at him.

"You chose _now_ to work on it? Couldn't you wait until practice?"

"You said to work together," Quinn snaps. "Sorry if it's inconvenient for you."

An amazed, wary hush falls over the class and Mr. Schuester glares at her.

"Quinn, I'll see you in the principal's office."

Quinn shrugs and complies, unaffected by his ire anymore, slipping out of class and wandering to Figgins's office, walking quietly as a springtime breeze.

* * *

The principal coughs nervously as she sits down, and he gestures for her to speak first.

"Mr. Schuester sent me here."

"Why is that, Ms. Fabray?"

Quinn rolls her eyes. "I was passing notes with Finn Hudson...and I talked back in class."

"Maybe you should talk to Ms. Pillsbury," Figgins suggests anxiously, fidgeting in his seat. "She was wonderful pamphlets for anger issues, you know."

"I'm don't have anger issues."

"Er...well, I don't know if this constitutes serving a full detention," Figgins mumbles, and Quinn sees a half-hidden pamphlet (_How to Deal with Intimidating Teenagers_) on his desk. "Just...don't undermine Mr. Schuester again, young lady. Teachers will be a respected authority in this school, and if an incident like this occurs again, I'll be forced to call your parents. Is that clear?"

Quinn nods (even though one of parents was an alcoholic/purist Christian/neglectful loser) and stands up, disappearing in a flash of red and white polyester.

* * *

"Quinn, are you even listening to me?"

Quinn blinks owlishly and glances at Finn, who, along with Rachel, Santana, Brittany, and Puck, sitting with her at the lunch table, stare. "What? Oh, no. Sorry."

"For our duet, I think we should do something easy," Finn repeats. "Rachel suggested _Lucky_."

Quinn wrinkles her nose. "For us? No. If I did that song, it'd be with Sam. His voice would work better for it with mine. What other ideas do you have?"

"_The Only Exception_?"

"No."

"_I Run to You_?" Finn offers, rather desperately.

"Maybe," Quinn acquiesces, thinking of the Lady Antebellum song. "It could work."

"It would sound nice, at least in my opinion," Rachel pipes up, awkwardly stretching to reach her water bottle until Puck takes pity on her and passes it. "Finn could sound very country if he tried to, along with you, Quinn, are both perfect for the song. Your voices would compliment each other."

"Okay," she surrenders, missing Santana's scoff of disbelief and Puck's raised eyebrow. "What are the rest of you doing?"

"Artie and I are debating _Don't Go Breaking My Heart_. But our choreography needs work."

"How so?" Puck wonders, stealing some of Brittany's cookies, as he ignores Santana's glare.

"Well, we can't just replicate our _Proud Mary_ performance. Wheelchairs offer only so many options and we need to be creative. Luckily, Artie is more enthusiastic about this number because it applies to him and said he would not object to practicing for another hour after glee today."

Rachel launches into another tirade and the rest of lunch is spent with dutiful, amused listeners.

* * *

Quinn wheels Rachel into the choir room amidst loud, enthusiastic greetings.

"Good to see you, Rachel," Mr. Schuester grins.

"I missed our solo spats," Mercedes offers sheepishly, similar to apologizing. Rachel giggles, accepting her past behavior.

"Me too. And I missed watching yours," Kurt snickers and receives a jab in the ribs from Mercedes.

"It's fantastic to be back," Rachel answers grandly, queenlike and regal. Quinn stifles a laugh.

Artie sits cheerfully with her at the front, with Quinn on her right.

"Oh, Sam?" Rachel calls, and the blond football player turns from listening to Kurt.

"Yeah?"

"_Kaltxì_, Sam. _Fyape nga_," Rachel says, nonchalant as the others stare at her blankly. Sam lights up, turning away from his boyfriend.

"That's Na'vi!" Sam yells excitedly. "Yes!"

"You speak Na'vi?" Quinn and Kurt squeak in unison. Sam trots over happily for a high-five.

"I was bored in the hospital," Rachel explains as the room dissolves into surprised laughter. "One of my dads brought over the DVD and I found the constant conversations in the language irritating, especially because it sounded like meaningless gibberish. I went on a translator and memorized a few phrases. Sam and I finally have something to talk about, besides glee," Rachel concludes proudly. "But I will say James Cameron copied a timeless Disney classic, _Pocahontas_."

"It's true," Sam agrees. "Jake Sully could be John Smith. _Avatar_ is like _Pocahontas_...in space."

Mr. Schuester looks mildly impressed; Kurt looks horrified; Mercedes and Quinn are barely containing giggles as Finn struggles to compare the two movies.

Santana simply sighs, as if this is not the craziest thing Rachel could ever do, or will ever do.

"That gives me an idea for an assignment," Mr. Schuester muses.

"We _already_ have _one_," Puck grumbles.

"I know. It'll be the next one. Okay, has anyone worked on the duets?"

"Artie and I are almost done," Rachel declares with an approving nod from Artie, while everyone else shifts uncomfortably, no one else quite near as ready as they are. "Our practice session today will be used to hammer down any imperfections, and we'll be first tomorrow, if that's okay, Mr. Schue?"

"No, it's excellent," the teacher acquiesces, relieved his best singer is back, injury and all.

He orders the group to split into their partners. Sam doesn't move from his seat, instead turning to Rachel.

"_So_. What do you think will happen in the _Avatar_ sequel?"

"You've created a monster," Kurt calls exasperatedly from across the room.

Truer words were never spoken, Rachel thinks.

* * *

"Great job, Rachel," Artie wheezes, waving goodbye as he rolls to his father's car. "...bye!"

"Goodbye, Artie!" Rachel replies tiredly, and calls Quinn's cell phone, who was unceremoniously forced to study in the gym, presiding over Cheerios forced to do laps (Sue looked on, approving of her 'successor' and her successor's temper because it's so similar to "one Sue Sylvester") due to her terrible mood while Rachel practiced her routine with Artie ("I want you to be surprised, Quinn! It would ruin the effect if you weren't!") who waits patiently near the front door, playing with the hem of her sweater.

"Hey, look, it's Helen Keller," a voice sneers, and Rachel looks up to see David Karofsky, just out of football practice and looking especially cruel today.

"That doesn't make any sort of sense," Rachel rolls her eyes at his stupidity. "Helen Keller was blind and deaf due to an unfortunate fever when she was a child, thus carrying on for the rest of her life. I'm in a cast because I was shot in the leg, in case you forgot, luckily avoiding any permanent damage. It's a temporary measure, David."

Karofsky shrugs. "Anyway, I think I'll go put you in a port-o-potty now."

"You most certainly will not," Rachel shrieks, batting away his meaty hands that reach for the handles, but hopelessly unsuccessful in preventing his advance. "If you push me any further down this hallway, David, I will be forced to use my rape whistle and scream as loud as I possibly can!"

"Karofsky!" Quinn shouts, striding down the hallway, her face darkening to nearly purple with rage.

"Juno," he offers rudely, and Quinn's glower intensifies.

"Back off. You aren't taking her anywhere. By the way, _great _nickname. Nice to know you can copy Santana."

Karofsky scowls, pushing past Quinn with a heavy shove. "I'll just slushie her tomorrow then. We're all happy, aren't we?"

Rachel stops the blonde from following as the jock leaves, and Quinn exhales deeply, rubbing her eyes.

"Told you so," she murmurs, pushing the wheelchair through the parking lot.

"I was doing perfectly fine on my own," Rachel mumbles.

"For once, Rachel, accept defeat," Quinn barks, frustrated. Opening the door, she helps Rachel sit down in the passenger seat, and folds the wheelchair and crams it into the backseat. Slamming the door, she stomps to the driver's seat and turns the keys, starting the car and easing out of the parking lot. Rachel sighs apologetically.

"Sorry."

"You don't have to apologize. I overreacted a bit," Quinn admits before sneering at a passing driver that cut her off. "But I'm just saying that I knew something like this would happen. Karofsky is a bully, and he always will be—he won't change for anyone unless he wants to, believe me—and I originally thought a school shooting would shock him into being a nice person, but I guess that's completely impossible. One of his targets is gone, so he'll concentrate on making his others miserable."

Rachel is quiet for awhile, simply studying Quinn until they reach another red light.

"Have you been sleeping well?"

"Sure," Quinn shrugs without conviction.

"I've noticed lately you've been extremely unfocused during classes and glee, even though I've only been back a day. It's one of my talents, but that's not important. Anyway, Finn had to call for your attention multiple times because you were so out of it."

"Maybe I don't like listening to him. He's stupid."

"_Maybe_ you're exhausted, Quinn. Not getting enough sleep can affect your memory and concentration. Have you tried using any sleep aides?"

"How'd your duet practice go?" Quinn deflects.

"Don't change the subject," Rachel quips, but can't resist adding, "It was great."

Quinn nods and parks in Rachel's driveway, where Leroy waits on the front steps.

"Thanks for the ride," Rachel says, leaning over to unexpectedly kiss Quinn on the cheek. Leroy hurries over and lifts Rachel effortlessly—she looks like a rag doll, Quinn thinks—placing her into the wheelchair and holding her backpack over his shoulders. Offering a friendly smile, Leroy murmurs a request for Quinn to wait a moment while he takes Rachel inside. The blonde nods, and Rachel disappears inside, and Leroy returns outside after several minutes, taking Rachel's previous place in the passenger side.

"How are you doing, Quinn?"

Quinn notices he isn't using a psychologist tone of voice, instead, it's a neutral, detached curiosity. She stares at him so long that he offers a small smile.

"I'm guessing you've used the same answer when someone asks you that question."

"Yeah," she admits. "I don't think I can use the word 'fine' any more than I already have."

Leroy's expression is gentle but cautionary; he doesn't want her to snap, yet senses her request for help hidden carefully behind her hesitation. "Everyone keeps offering an ear to listen and a shoulder to cry on, correct?"

"More than I can count."

"You could talk to me as well, if you wanted to," he says easily, his eyes sweeping her face. He notices the dark circles under her eyes, but doesn't comment on them. Not yet. She'll deny it, he realizes. "No pressure...similar to a parental figure, but separate enough not to know and ask about everything you're trying to hide."

"Trying to hide?" Quinn questions, but knowing his answer anyway.

"I don't expect you to show me all the skeletons in your closet," Leroy chuckles dryly. "You're entitled to keep secrets. I'll wager that most of your friends, although good intentioned and concerned for your wellbeing, are trying to push you. You've been through an experience most adults and other students will never understand, no matter how hard they try. Shootings from the nineties and earlier are still relevant today. The victims are remembered, and the survivors are altered, sometimes obviously, and sometimes obscurely. Your school shooting was barely a month ago, Quinn. I'd imagine you're struggling with this, trying to cope—who wouldn't be?"

Quinn is silent, and Leroy takes this as incentive to continue.

"I haven't been involved in a school shooting, but I'd like to help you work through it, if you wanted to."

"Maybe," she murmurs, feeling like that answer is overused too.

"If you find that you can't talk to your mother, your sister, your friends...you can talk to me, Quinn. Or, if I can't help you, my daughter is an excellent listener," Leroy adds.

Quinn blushes slightly, guilt stirring in her stomach. "Um, sir...do you know what I used to do and say to your daughter? I don't exactly deserve your time."

Leroy nods, allowing, but his kind expression doesn't change. "Rachel tells my husband and I everything. But you've become her friend. If she's forgiven you, why can't I?"

"You're probably the best father ever," Quinn blurts out honestly. Leroy smiles wider.

(He's more forgiving than her own father would be in his entire life, and it makes her privately upset.)

"Don't let the other Mr. Berry hear that."

"I'll guess that you two are in competition to spoil Rachel," Quinn jokes.

"You have _no_ idea," Leroy laughs. Quinn lets herself relax a little.

"Well, I've added my name to the options," Rachel's father says, opening the door. "If you ever need a hundredth person to speak to, I'll make time for your problems."

"Thank you," Quinn smiles, and Leroy waves, heading into his home and closing the door.

Quinn drives away, the pressure on her head relieved for the moment.

* * *

"Hey," Mandy yawns, glancing at an approaching Quinn from the living room where she had been lounging on the couch. "Where've you been?"

"School, glee, Cheerios, Rachel's," Quinn sighs, collapsing in an armchair. Mandy tosses a chip at her.

"You're overworked, loser."

"You're underworked, slacker."

"I'm on a break," Mandy protests stubbornly.

"You don't have a job, you're living with Mom and in your hometown, you're twenty-three and you dropped out of law school," Quinn snickers. "That's _not_ a break."

"I've earned it."

"Whatever you say, sis," Quinn singsongs, stealing the remote.

"Excuse me, I was watching my shows!"

"You were watching _Days of Our Lives_, a _repeat_ on _SoapNet_. That screams 'loser' and second, I was working hard all day. I get to pick what we're watching," Quinn replies.

"At least put on something interesting..._no_! We're not watching _Bring It On_."

"Why not?" Quinn exclaims. "It's awesome. Have you _seen_ the routines?"

Mandy rolls her eyes. "Cheerleaders. Total airheads."

"Dropouts," Quinn counters. "What wastes of space."

Mandy throws a pillow at her. "Whatever, you geek. How was school?"

"I played nurse all day."

"That sounds kinky," Mandy remarks suggestively, raising an eyebrow. Quinn turns pink.

"I pushed Rachel's wheelchair around and helped her get to class," Quinn hisses, embarrassed. "_God_."

"Your words, not mine," Mandy teases, watching Quinn's skin blush brighten. "How is _dear_ Rachel doing?"

"Fine."

"Think of a new adjective, smarty pants."

"Insufferably cheery," Quinn amends. "She's recovering from a bullet wound and still manages to fine-tune her duet with Artie while Finn and I haven't even started ours."

"Finn? The ex-boyfriend?" Mandy inquires, surprised. "Interesting."

"Stop watching soap operas," Quinn orders. "They're messing with your head."

"I do know that anti-drowsy meds mess with your head," Mandy says swiftly, eyeing Quinn closely. "I've noticed a few have gone missing from the cabinet."

"I have to stay focused in school," Quinn lies uncomfortably. "That's why I used them."

"Yet you're still tired," Mandy points out. "Anything you want to tell me?"

Remembering Leroy's comments from earlier, Quinn shakes her head firmly, her humor faded entirely.

"No, Mandy. Nothing at all."

* * *

Quinn picks Rachel up the next day, and finds her midway through a conversation on her phone.

"...when? Sure, that's okay. Are you having—no? You can if you want to. Okay, yes, bye."

"Who was that?"

"My mom," Rachel answers. "She wanted to know when I could visit her again."

"I could drive you," Quinn suggests. Rachel squirms uneasily. "What?"

"She also wanted to know if you wanted to join us."

"Why?"

"Um...maybe to see Beth."

Quinn doesn't say anything for several moments. "I don't know. Have you asked Puck about it?"

"Noah? No! I didn't even think of him. You're right, he might want to see her," Rachel agrees.

Quinn silently brings Rachel to her locker, and hands her the textbooks for her morning classes.

"Quinn?"

"What?" Quinn asks, seeing Rachel's expression become earnest and hopeful.

"I think you should see Beth. It might be good for you."

"That's for me to decide, Rachel," Quinn mutters, avoiding Rachel's eyes. "I know you're trying to help, but I don't know if I'm ready yet, or if I ever will be."

"Okay," Rachel sighs, and doesn't press the topic.

* * *

Quinn is in third period when an announcement drones through the loudspeaker.

"_All students will report to the auditorium at this time_."

"What's going on?" Quinn asks Sam, who's nearest to her out of anyone she talks to.

He holds the door for her, and they sit in the back, while other students file in from the sides.

"The memorial service," Sam says. "Remember? They mentioned it on the news."

Quinn pales slightly and nods, feeling nauseated. The twenty-one who didn't make it, the ones Jacob mowed down on his killing spree. Quinn still remembers the sounds. The auditorium fills up and Figgins stands alone on the stage, waiting patiently for the chatter to die down. The teachers stand against the walls, expressionless and grim. Far off in the corner, a news camera and a reporter talk quietly. Distantly, Quinn can see the back of Rachel's head, she and Artie at the end of an aisle, whispering. Puck sits on Rachel's left, and his face looks contemplative and ghostly, but he seems to glance at Rachel and nod once, and Quinn knows instantly that he wants to see Beth.

That makes one of them. For now, she supposes.

"You okay?" Sam murmurs, his eyebrows drawn together in concern.

"Fine," she responds, sounding far away, almost incomprehensible. Sam holds her hand tightly.

Figgins signals the projector room above the seats, and finds a seat for himself next to Mr. Schuester and Ms. Pillsbury. The film begins, showing the pictures of the twenty one teenagers that were lost and words from an expert, who urges those involved to speak, speak to _someone_. Quinn thinks the pictures must be the ones from the first day of this year, when everyone was herded into the gym for yearbook photos. Her head starts to ache painfully and the room seems to shrink, making it harder for her to breathe as she stares at each face that projects onto the stage. The last picture—the bespectacled Jewish boy with beady eyes, an untamable red curly 'fro and a creepy smile that sends her heart plummeting into despair and pure terror, just like her nightmares—makes her sick, as all voices around her roar with rage and indignation.

"Why is _he_ there?"

"What the fuck?"

"He did it, he shouldn't be with the people he _killed!_"

Quinn wretches her hand from Sam's, who doesn't fight her, only half-rising sympathetically from his seat as his fellow blonde bolts for the doors, streaming brightness into the dark as she disappears as fast as she can. Sam's eyes meet Kurt's sad ones all the way across the auditorium, who gestures to Rachel on the other side, clearly desperate to follow Quinn. Sam navigates through the chaos of shouting students as teachers try to calm them down (some looking disgusted with the picture themselves) and finds Rachel. He winds his hands around the handles and pushes Rachel up the aisle, ignoring everyone else and returning Rachel's grateful smile.

They search for over an hour, peering into classrooms, bathrooms, and janitor closets, when the other students have returned to class, swearing and muttering mutinously at Figgins's daring (Sam recalls Figgins frantically trying explain that Jacob _was _a student too). Teachers give up trying to teach and let their kids have free rein.

When the football player and diva reach the parking lot, Quinn's infamous red car is missing.

"She ditched," Sam sighs.

"She's scared," Rachel returns, defeated.

"She needs to get real help," Sam says, sitting down on the sidewalk and squinting at her worried face. "Quinn's bottling things up. That never ends well."

"I know. Even I can't through to her, and I was with her when it happened."

"Should we try and find her?"

Rachel shakes her head. "No. She'll come when she's ready. She has the excuse. Next time, we'll chase her."

Sam surveys Rachel's face. "You care about her a lot, Rachel, I can see that. So do I. You see her differently than we do. How can we fix this? Santana's can't help because Quinn's angry with her and their friendship is strange. Finn, Puck, Mike, and Artie can't relate to her. Brittany doesn't understand (or maybe she does, in her own special way), while Mercedes, Kurt, Tina, and I might be able to help a little but you're the only one who went through the same thing. Is there a way to get through to her?"

"My dad, Leroy, he's a psychiatrist. He offered to listen. But she won't talk to anyone, not even me. She _did _promise though, so maybe she'll eventually talk with me."

"Why don't you bring her to see the baby?" Sam proposes.

"No, no way," Rachel says vehemently. "Beth is a risky tactic. She could either be happy to see her, happy to see her and want her back from my mom, or be angry and yell at both of us for trying to force it on her. Those are just educated guesses—she's become unpredictable now."

"What about her mother? Or her sister?"

"Maybe," Rachel theorizes. "Siblings often understand each other better than most observers would. I wouldn't know, of course, but she's probably very close to Mandy."

Sam drags a hand over his face. "Okay. We should talk to Mandy."

"I'm sure she knows, but you're right. Soon. For now, I think we should leave Quinn be."

Sam steers Rachel back into the building, and the security guard regards them warily but continues reading his newspaper at his desk. The bell rings shrilly and the hallways flood with bodies on all sides, and Rachel checks the time. Forgoing the task of getting their books and backpacks from their third period classes, Sam brings her to the lunchroom and they wait at a table for their friends to arrive. "We should keep that conversation to ourselves," Sam mutters out of the corner of his mouth.

"Agreed," Rachel murmurs back, and both hitch on smiles as Santana, Brittany, Puck, Finn, and Kurt approach, laden with lunch trays.

* * *

Quinn waits until five o'clock, when McKinley is cleared out, and slips inside, her eyes cold as ice.

Anticipating another nightmare-filled night, she decides to take extreme measures. Forget sleep aides, and forget useless anti-drowsy medication. She resolves to find the best upper she can think of, and she's seen the effects before. Alert, bright, happy, and most important of all, staying awake, albeit excessively.

Peeking around the hallway, she finds the nurse's office unlocked. She turns the light on. Striding to the desk, she opens a drawer, finding pens and office supplies.

Opening the second one, she finds what she's looking for—pseudoephedrine—and swipes two boxes of it.

_"Everyone gets a dose," Terri Schuester trilled delightedly, handing two pills and a cup to each waiting glee girl, and smiling eagerly. "Oh, except for Quinn," she added, lowering her voice to a stage-whisper, "You get folic acid...momma. It's good for the baby."_

_"Get the lead out, Howard. We have patients waiting," Mr. Schue's ex-wife commanded. Howard Bamboo, her depressed-looking employee, struggled to rip open the boxes._

_"Are you sure we should be doing this?" Rachel asked uneasily._

_"Oh, it's over the counter. It's safe. You can trust me. I'm a nurse. It's good for you," Terri wheedled, a weird, expression on her face and an unstable glint to her frigid eyes._

Quinn frowns at the box, recalling the effects. Nervousness, excitability, dizziness...even Santana was perkier, something about as common as a flying pig, and smiling genuinely—tripping, but genuine—and Quinn didn't have any like the others. Rachel was practically floating off the ground after the performance of the mashup, squeaking frenzied phrases that were even more incoherent and babbling than usual. All the glee members were as high as kites, and Quinn was curious about the feeling.

Her hand finds her stomach and her resolve strengthens. Beth isn't around to be affected anymore. This dosage won't harm the baby she used to carry, adapting her lifestyle and eating habits to make sure her child was okay and cared for. It will only affect Quinn. Her body is finally her own again, she's not sharing.

Beth has a new caregiver. Quinn isn't needed, except in the future to explain why she gave up her child and undoubtedly lowered her daughter's self-esteem and self-worth.

That point makes her sad, guilty, and exhausted all at once like a sucker punch to her heart or a well-placed kidney shot.

(Her conscious protests that this is a bad idea—she'll crash and burn eventually. Drugs won't keep her afloat forever, it'll just delay the inevitable burnout.)

Quinn's gaze reaches a window, and reflected back in the fading sun is her face, whiter than snow and akin to the complexion of a corpse.

"Vitamin D it is," she murmurs to herself. Shutting off the light, she closes the door on the way out.

* * *

Quinn ignores the warning label as she stands in front of her bathroom mirror the next morning, Judy and Mandy still asleep.

She determinedly stayed awake the entire night before, finishing her homework, choreographing a dance for her and Finn to perform with their duet, packing a lunch so she doesn't have to buy one, setting her Cheerios uniform aside with her bag, organizing a routine for Coach Sylvester to inspect and approve, tidying up the living room, quietly practicing scales and lastly, endlessly pacing. Her head feels light and empty, and for once, she doesn't dispute the stereotype of cheerleaders being stupid airheads.

Because she's being exceptionally stupid, and she can't really feel her brain at the moment. She thinks it shrank, but that's the drowsiness talking.

She again eyes her own image, and she can't even remember how she looked like when she was normal. Her mind argues that very point—when was she ever normal? As a kid? Preteen? Freshman? Quinn can't decide if she was ever normal in the first place, or always struggling with some issue. Between cheating on her gullible boyfriend with his best friend, tricking said boyfriend for a long time about the baby's parentage (that was surprisingly easy, but Finn was pretty stupid sometimes), then being kicked out of her home, having the baby's father exposed and jumping between houses, to witnessing a school shooting and becoming friends with the very girl who she tormented for two years straight and the same one who outed her secret of sleeping with Puck to Finn himself and almost cost them Sectionals last year?

No. She was never normal. She resembles a femme fatale from Mandy's silly soap operas, at best.

Quinn Fabray, Head Cheerio, HBIC. Quinn, the once-pregnant girl, now the restored queen, and lastly, the tortured blonde in glee club who was well on her way to becoming the school crazy. Might as well add thief to that list of labels, Quinn thinks, slightly amused. Or, future Vitamin D addict.

She swallows two pills and chases them down with water, and blinks twice, waiting for the dose to slip into her bloodstream, rush through her arteries, circling once around the heart, and finally, traveling into her head to influence her. Hmm. Biology class _was_ actually useful. Imagine that.

Bottom's up_, _she muses.

* * *

**Sorry for the wait!**


	7. Chapter 7

**Here's chapter seven. I don't know, but I might be able to make it to ten chapters. Enjoy!**

**Disclaimer: I don't own _Glee. _**

**_

* * *

_**

"Daddy," Rachel demands, knocking on the window impatiently. "Daddy! I'm going to be late!"

"I'm here, I'm here," Leroy says, buckling his seatbelt and waving goodbye to Hiram.

"Bye, Dad," Rachel calls, and Hiram smiles before returning inside the house for his day-off.

Leroy drives her to McKinley, and both see Quinn sitting on a bench, clad in her uniform and a bright, gleaming smile on her face. Leroy helps Rachel into the wheelchair and hands her backpack to Quinn. Leroy offers a farewell to each girl and a kiss on Rachel's forehead before leaving, as Quinn starts to push the wheelchair inside the building, still wearing that silly grin on her face.

"Good morning, Quinn," Rachel says carefully, not wanting to question the blonde's uncharacteristically chipper mood but remembering the previous day. Quinn just laughs.

"Morning," she beams, and Rachel twists around slightly in her seat to look at her expression.

Quinn's nearly bouncing in place with glee and a glint of delight rests in her eyes, making the hazel sparkle like precious gems. Rachel can't help but smile at the sight, but her nagging sixth sense—becoming increasingly pessimistic these days—won't go quietly. Something's...off. Quinn doesn't get this happy, ever (even when pregnant/friendly/not a Cheerio) and she was practically MIA yesterday after the assembly. No one had heard from her last night, and almost everyone had tried texting or calling her...and suddenly she's animated and lively as Rachel herself would be after winning a solo. Rachel wonders if she's being paranoid, but doesn't say anything until they reach her locker and Quinn's spinning the combination, humming to herself.

"Um, Quinn?"

"Yes?"

"Are you feeling alright?"

Quinn giggles. "Of course, Rachel. Why wouldn't I be?"

Rachel stares, and fumbles with a noncommittal answer. "No reason."

Quinn shrugs patiently and hands Rachel her books, as Sam wanders over, Kurt watching nearby.

"Hey," Sam greets, and immediately raises an eyebrow at Quinn's enthusiastic hello—a hug.

"Nice to see you too, Sam," Quinn gushes, kissing his cheek. (Rachel sees Kurt stomp his foot. _Jealous!_)

"Wow, you're feeling better," Sam laughs nervously, widening his eyes at Rachel, who shrugs, at a loss. "I thought you'd be upset after the presentation yesterday."

"It was sad, wasn't it?" Quinn sighs heavily. "I hope everyone who died is at peace, you know?"

Sam and Rachel are torn between desperately laughing, asking for her sanity, and questioning if she was abducted by aliens. The Quinn Fabray they know is somber and quiet, fierce as a lioness when angry and able to make just about anyone in the school cry if she really tries to. This Quinn Fabray is reverting to a cheerleader-on-crack personality, or maybe a Disney princess attitude, along with an apparent case of amnesia for her flight from the auditorium only the day before.

"Sure," Sam says weakly, scratching his ear.

"Exactly," Rachel squeaks. Quinn beams, undeterred by their solemnity.

"Sam, would you mind taking Rach to class? I have a Chemistry test to study for. Thanks!"

With a merry wave, Quinn skipped away, rounding a corner and disappearing from sight.

"Okay," Sam states. "I'm putting definitely my money on alien abduction."

* * *

"It has to be," Kurt insists. "Quinn Fabray has finally lost it. Flipped her lid. Gone nuts."

"She's not crazy," Rachel and Sam snap together. Kurt sighs.

"What else would explain her Spongebob Squarepants level giddiness?"

"You watch _Spongebob_?" Rachel wonders disdainfully. Sam snickers.

Kurt blushes. "When I was younger. Anyway, let's get back to Quinn. Any ideas?"

"Maybe she got over it," Sam suggests. "The shooting, I mean."

"It's been a month," Rachel disagrees, drumming her fingers on the wheelchair handle. "That's just not possible. I skimmed some of my father's psychiatric notes—"

"That's unethical," Kurt interjects.

"—and he wrote that most treatment of psychological traumas take extended periods of time with regular sessions," Rachel continues louder, acting as if Kurt had not spoken. "Recovering from seeing Jacob shoot himself wouldn't be that easy, even for someone as persistent and relentless as Quinn. She says she's sleeping well, but it's obvious she isn't—have you seen under her eyes?"

"So this cheery demeanor is a facade, you think?" Kurt inquires.

"I wouldn't doubt that she's still hurting," Rachel returns.

"The real question is how long she can keep up this jolly act," Sam says. "I don't think she can."

"Maybe she's just trying to get Mr. Schuester off her case," Kurt offers. "He's been singling her out a lot lately. Her attitude toward him doesn't help much. That man is insufferable to his own ego, that's not the point. Do you two think Quinn would resort to this to avoid the spotlight?"

"Probably. She's very defensive when she doesn't want to talk about something," Rachel allows.

The brunette girl, the male diva, and the blonde boy stay silent for several minutes.

"So...what do we do?" Sam sighs.

"Be around if she wants to talk," Rachel decides. "She has to eventually."

"Otherwise, just watch," Kurt declares. "Watch until she cracks and be ready to help."

"This would be where we break the huddle and clap," Sam supplies brightly.

"No, Sam. We're not doing that."

"Oh, okay."

* * *

"Berry! Hey, Berry!" A voice hisses.

Rachel peers sideways at Santana, who sits two seats away from her in Algebra II.

"What?" Rachel whispers, keeping an eye on the teacher, still scrawling a formula on the board.

A note slide in her direction, passed obediently by Brittany and a third, unnamed Cheerio.

_What's Q's angle?_

"What do you mean?"

Santana nudges Brittany, who swaps seats with her and the third Cheerio, leaving Santana right next to Rachel, Brittany next to Santana, and the tall blonde sandwiched between her girlfriend and the third Cheerio, who immediately had complied with Santana's order, terrified of the Latina's will. Rachel frowns at the new setup as the teacher turns around, seeing innocent, expectant faces, poised to take notes. The teacher scowls suspiciously before turning his back on them again to write.

"What's Quinn trying to do?"

"I don't know," Rachel insists. "She was like that earlier with Sam and I."

"It's freaking me out," Santana grumbles. "Even if me and Quinn—"

"Quinn and I," Rachel corrects.

"I'm not talking about you and Quinn, Manhands. Me and Q aren't exactly friends at the moment but I do know her. She never gets excited and squeaky, even when we were kids," Santana admits. "I know she's still mad at me. I shouldn't have pushed her, I get that, but why is she suddenly rivaling a Powerpuff girl in playfulness?"

"I'm still figuring that out," Rachel answers truthfully. "It's a mystery."

"Keep at it and get back to me," Santana orders, ending the conversation as she looks ahead.

Could've been worse, Rachel thinks, relieved. Seeing Santana offer her simplified notes to Brittany, who smiles thankfully and instigates Santana to color slightly, mollified, Rachel realizes with only some surprise Santana might actually care a lot about someone else other than her girlfriend.

* * *

"That was amazing," Quinn cheers, clapping, as Rachel and Artie finish their duet, breathing heavily.

"I have to agree, fantastic job, both of you," Mr. Schuester praises.

Rachel smiles uncertainly and wheels herself back to Quinn's side, blushing at Quinn's grin.

"Anyone else ready?" Mr. Schuester asks, pleased and the only one unaffected by Quinn's rapid turnaround. Everyone else had heard from other members in glee and casual observers that Quinn had switched from cool and biting to cheery and pleasant overnight, and her mood didn't change for the entire day. Ms. Pillsbury had gaped (scurrying to find a pamphlet to explain the change), Sue Sylvester had nodded approvingly, and Mr. Schue was delighted—no more jabs or rudeness from the Head Cheerio.

"No," Puck speaks for the majority, unnerved at Quinn's behavior. "We're still working."

"You _guys_," Mr. Schuester complains. "It doesn't take more than a week to hash out a simple duet."

"I agree," Quinn announces. "Finn, meet me in the auditorium, we have to practice."

Morbidly fascinated and frightened by her determination, Finn follows her out of the room. Instantly, chatter engulfs the club and everyone wonders exactly is in the water Quinn's been drinking, and how she managed to evolve into Rachel's enthusiasm and determination for glee assignments.

"I resent that," Rachel sulks. "Singing is my passion. If that's wrong, I don't want to be right."

"Whatever, Berry, it's true," Santana points out. "But it's _you_, and it's definitely _not_ Quinn."

"I think it's a positive change," Mr. Schuester interrupts. "She's happy."

Ten pairs of eyes bore down disbelievingly on their oblivious, obtuse glee director.

"Are you serious?" Puck demands.

"She's clearly struggling," Rachel adds. "It was a month ago. Quinn is hiding her pain with joy."

"Yeah, it's as fake as Santana's chest," Puck tacks on, and Santana punches him in the arm.

"It's the truth!" Puck yelps indignantly. Brittany helpfully kicks his knee, and Puck curses.

"I'll have to side with Rachel on this," Kurt pipes up. "Quinn's never been this energetic."

"Well, I for one think we should let sleeping dogs lie," Mr. Schuester voices his opinion pointedly, wearing his annoyingly 'stern' expression. "Anyway, let's stop talking about Quinn for now. Since you all haven't worked enough, I'll give you practice time to work on those duets."

Rachel rolls her eyes and speaks with Artie as the others rehearse, and meets Sam's eyes.

_Later_, he mouths, _let's find Mandy_.

_During Sylvester's practice_, she mouths back. _Quinn won't be home until six._

Sam nods and Rachel finishes her chat with Artie, internally planning her questions.

* * *

"I'm impressed, Q," Sue comments when the other cheerleaders are on the ground, panting. Sue had commanded fifteen suicides, and Quinn had led the pack, running like her life depended on it and ending the task with a wide smile on her lips. Quinn had stretched like a pro while the other girls collapsed, some in tears and others short for breath. The six boys on the team—catchers to the fliers during complex routines—also look exhausted. All except one happy Quinn Fabray.

"Thank you, Coach."

"To be honest, I underestimated you. I thought your postpartum depression would continue for the rest of your life, ruining your chances to get ahead in life. I wouldn't know pregnancy effects—never had kids and don't have the uterus or the patience to keep one. But once again you've managed to crawl from a second bout of despair after what I call 'Jacob's Folly' and cement your position as Head Cheerio. Excellent job."

"Thank you," Quinn answers, the steely look in her eyes the only indication she was affected by Sue's speech. Ignoring the tightness in her chest, she watches the field.

"With you better than ever, my team will win Nationals and earn you a scholarship," Sue says.

"A scholarship?" Quinn repeats, earlier delight returning to her expression.

"Yes, but enough talk about that. All of you, up and at 'em. Five laps, around the field! _Now_!"

* * *

"Are you sure this is a good idea?" Rachel questions anxiously.

"Yes. Maybe Quinn acts different at home. Her sister might know stuff we don't," Sam reasons.

"Fine, but if Quinn finds out and we're in trouble, I'm blaming you," Rachel vows.

Sam rolls his eyes but rings the doorbell as both shift in place, nervous.

The door opens, revealing Amanda Fabray, who looks to be a clone of Quinn, aged several years with only a few differences between them. Mandy smiles politely.

"Hi. Are you two looking for Quinn?"

"No, actually, we wanted to talk to you," Rachel asserts. "If you wouldn't mind, of course."

Mandy blinks. "_Okay_..."

She steps aside, opening the door wider and Sam lifts the wheelchair over the threshold. Mandy leads the way into the dining room, and Rachel sees a few pictures of Quinn and Mandy as children, one of Quinn when she was in middle school, and two imposing and posed family photographs, with Quinn, Mandy, and Mrs. Fabray standing behind Mr. Fabray. Rachel scowls at it before she is wheeled away, and Mandy clears a space at the table. An awkward silence descends upon the three of them until Rachel speaks.

"We're both here to discuss Quinn with you," the brunette offers. "Specifically her attitude."

"Oh, right," Mandy agrees, suddenly more interested in the topic. "Yeah, she's been busy. Tired. I haven't really noticed her eating too much—my mom's a little worried."

"Has she been acting strange?" Sam questions.

"Strange, no. Subdued, yes. My sister and I used to be able to talk for hours about anything and everything. Now she contributes about a quarter of that," Mandy admits sadly. "And the other day, I saw that she had used some anti-drowsy pills from my mother's medicine cabinet. She said she needed them but I think there's something else going on. She won't open up to me anymore. We were—I mean, we _are_—close, but it's just...different than before. She's like...Quinn-Lite."

"She's resorting to medication?" Rachel repeats, unease slipping down her spine. "That's not like her."

"I wouldn't worry too much," Mandy says. "She told me she only used them once."

"That doesn't explain her behavior today," Sam pipes up. "Quinn was totally weird."

"How so?"

"Well, um, Quinn puts on a...how should I say this? An act?" Rachel offers.

"A bitchy one?" Mandy guesses. "I know Santana. I've heard a few stories."

"Right. Well Quinn is normally either in an irritated mood or, lately, a quiet one, obviously because she's still dealing. But today she pranced around like Judy Garland."

"Jackie Burkhart, _That's 70's Show_," Sam adds.

"Galinda in _Wicked_," Rachel includes. "Or Dory in _Finding Nemo_."

"Will Ferrell, _Elf_," Sam continues.

"Patty Simcox in _Grease_," Rachel suggests.

"Okay, okay, slow down," Mandy interjects, trying not to laugh. "So...you're saying that Quinn was acting way out of character today? Like someone who's...very cheery?"

"Exactly," Rachel nods. "Quinn's never bright and cheerful as she was today."

"Maybe she had a good night's sleep?"

"I don't think so. She looks just as tired as she's been all month," Sam disagrees. "It's like she's a zombie going through the motions."

"I'll keep an eye on her," Mandy decides. "But I'm not sure if—"

"Hey," the blonde-in-question greets with a radiant smile, tossing her duffel bag on the floor and joining the three of them at the table. "What are you guys doing here?"

"Looking for you," Sam lies quickly, panicking.

"We missed you after glee," Rachel improvises wildly.

"I was just about to invite them to dinner," Mandy cuts in, still calm. "How 'bout it?"

"Sounds great," Rachel mumbles.

"Yeah," Sam squeaks.

Quinn beams at them before trotting upstairs for a shower.

Mandy sighs deeply. "I see what you mean. I didn't wake up and see her. Last night she was evasive and tired. She wouldn't gain all that energy and pep so quickly."

"It's practically inhuman," Sam agrees.

"Energy...pep," Rachel repeats, eyebrows furrowed in thought. "That reminds me of something."

"Let's talk about that later," Sam advises. "In private. We've given Mandy plenty to think about."

Mandy nods in agreement, glancing at the clock. "My mom will be home soon. I guess you two can just chill out in here if you wanted to. I'll go get changed, excuse me."

Sam and Rachel are left alone, and Sam coughs nervously.

"Um...ready for the most awkward dinner of our lives?"

"I'm a _performer_, Sam. I'm always ready."

"Show off."

* * *

Sam was half-right. The dinner was awkward, but only for the first part. Judy, surprised that Quinn actually invited friends over—it had been quite a long time, after all—was interested in both the football player and the diva, having not met them properly. Judy listened eagerly to the tales of glee club that Quinn 'forgot' to mention, and Sam supplied information about his games. Quinn, the only one completely comfortable, happily informed everyone of her 'fantastic' day.

"Ms. Sylvester mentioned a scholarship for me," Quinn reports, beaming.

"That's wonderful, sweetie," Judy smiles.

"Where would you go, Quinn?" Mandy wonders. "What would you even do?"

"I don't know," Quinn gushes honestly. "But I have another year to figure it out!"

Rachel, Sam, and Mandy exchange nervous looks—she too cheerful!—but Judy and Quinn don't notice.

"She's like a Stepford wife," Mandy mutters when Judy and Quinn discuss colleges.

"I think you win the comparison contest," Rachel whispers. Sam nods.

"So, Sam, do you have a girlfriend at school?" Judy asks.

Rachel pales, and Mandy tilts her head quizzically at the only brunette at the table, wondering why. Rachel widens her eyes and mouths 'boyfriend' to Mandy, who chokes.

Sam laughs, the sound higher in pitch than usual, betraying his anxiety. "Um, no. I don't."

"He's dating Kurt, Mom," Quinn interjects cheerily. "They're adorable together."

Judy barely blinks. "Kurt Hummel, right? I met his father last month. That's sweet."

Mandy splutters.

"What?"

"I thought you would've thrown a Bible at him, Mom," Mandy remarks quietly, sending an apologetic glance to Sam, who shrugs. "Dad wasn't exactly tolerant in the past."

"I'm not your father," Judy says staunchly. "I think love isn't subjective to religion or gender."

Quinn looks impressed, Rachel and Sam look relieved, and Mandy just nods, pleased.

"Who wants ice-cream?" Judy trills cheerfully.

* * *

"I'm actually shaking," Rachel laughs. "Wow."

"We're alive," Sam cheers. "Quinn didn't catch us, and we got free food and tolerance."

"I always assumed Mr. Fabray was the aggressor. He was the one who kicked Quinn out but Judy was the one to apologize and ask Quinn to live with her again."

Sam closes Rachel's door, and walks around the car, and sits down on the driver's side.

"I think Judy is really trying," Rachel comments. "She was the opposite of my theories."

"I agree," Sam remarks, starting the engine, but doesn't drive off. "Hey, look, it's Quinn."

Quinn hurries across the driveway, and Rachel rolls down her window.

"Thanks for coming to dinner, guys. It was really nice," Quinn says, flashing a sparkling grin.

"No problem," Sam replies as Rachel smiles.

Quinn leans over and kisses Rachel's cheek. "See you tomorrow. I'll pick you up, Rach."

Quinn lopes back inside and Sam stares as Rachel turns red.

"That's new," he says, waggling his eyebrows. "Care to explain?"

"No."

"I think you liked it."

Silence.

"You're blushing."

"No, I'm not."

"Red's your color," Sam snickers.

"Sam."

"Quinn, you, Kurt, and I can double date," Sam teases. "What d'you think?"

"Sam."

"I hope you aren't threatened by me. Quinn kissed my cheek too, but we're just friends," Sam snickers. "But I think she really likes you. She stares at you all the time."

"Really?" Rachel asks before she can stop herself.

"Yes. And I," Sam takes on hand off the wheel when the car stills at a red light, dramatically placing it over his heart and smiling sweetly, "honestly think it's _adorable_."

"You've been spending way too much time in Kurt's company," Rachel pouts.

"Gotta keep the those temper tantrums away," Sam declares, smirking. "Solos are yours, Rach."

"Normally I would be delighted with that information, but we need to keep investigating Quinn," Rachel insists. "We need to see if she continues to act like this. Maybe we're overracting and this is the real Quinn Fabray, or we're right and Quinn's pretending to be over her issues. Now we have an eye on the inside to watch her closely."

Sam sombers slightly. "I know."

"Just so you know, the kising doesn't bother me. It wasn't the first time," Rachel says.

"What?"

"I kissed her the other day," Rachel explains. "This doesn't leave the confines of this car."

"Okay, okay, continue," Sam urges, interested. "I definitely want to hear this."

"Don't tell Kurt either."

"Deal. Talk, woman, talk!"

"Okay. It started with the library," Rachel begins, turning the radio off. "Quinn had found me and we were talking—she listens to me this year, I'm very shocked, and she hasn't said anything rude to me all semester. I suggested that she kiss me—_stop_ smiling like that—because I really thought I was going to die," she elaborates, scowling at Sam's dopey grin, "and yes, I know it was dramatic. I'm dramatic, I do things like that. Whatever. Surprisingly, Quinn agreed to it, and I did kiss her."

"And then what?" Sam questions.

"It was magical," Rachel smiles. "And she said something like 'that's what friends do'."

"If you're Brittany and Santana," Sam scoffs disbelievingly. "We all know how that turned out."

"Anyway, she's become a good friend to me, in contrast to last year, but I think she's holding back. She won't talk to me—not that she talks to anyone, because she keeps avoiding the questions—but she does make an effort to listen when I'm rambling. She visited me often in the hospital, and she drove me to school the other day."

"Tomorrow, like she offered, too," Sam adds.

"Yes. To proceed, on my first day back, two days ago, Quinn looked especially nervous. She explained that it was out of concern for me. She didn't want me to get slushied or pranked by the likes of David Karofsky and his hockey minions. She was right about that, but more on that later. I kissed her so she wouldn't be nervous, and it seemed to work, she was sort of back to her old self—rolling her eyes but in a friendly manner. Does that make any sense?"

"Yup. So, besides the kissing thing, what did you mean about Karofsky?"

Rachel blushes. "Oh. He threatened to lock me in a portable toilet and tip it over, I assume."

"I'll trip him at practice," Sam promises.

"Make it look accidental," Rachel prompts. "I don't condone violence."

"Fine," Sam sighs, exasperated. "So you do like kissing Quinn? I won't laugh, I swear."

"It's not like I haven't noticed how pretty she is," Rachel admits. "Who in Lima hasn't? But yes, I do like it—_her_. I do like her, but I don't want to jeopardize our new friendship. She's my first real best friend, one that I've always wanted."

"I thought I was your best friend," Sam protests.

"Are you?"

"Of course I am. We're like Will and Grace."

"Okay, she's my first best friend that happens to be a girl. You're my best friend that's a boy," Rachel amends, amused at Sam's persistence and sincerity. She wishes he was in McKinley last year, but that's in the past. Sam smiles at her as they continue driving, and she returns the gesture.

"Good."

"I'm just caught in a Catch-22. I wouldn't mind being with Quinn, but our friendship is a delicate one. I'm not even sure if my feelings extend beyond platonic because no other girl has been this close to me. It's all really confusing at the moment. And the fact that Quinn's dedicated to being Christian and straight."

"You don't know that," Sam offers. "Her mother is an example of change when praticing a religion. Quinn supports Kurt and I, along with Britt and Santana, so why wouldn't she support herself?"

"Gay panic?" Rachel suggests. "I don't even know if I'm completely straight. I'm just open-minded. I'll have to think harder about this."

Sam nods. "There's nothing wrong with that. Kurt knows I'm bisexual."

"Do you ever feel different than everyone else at school?" Rachel inquires.

"Sometimes. But Kurt makes me happy," Sam smiles. "I'd rather just be with someone who makes me happy than be alone, you know?"

They drive in silence until Sam speaks up.

"I think we can save this conversation for later. Quinn acting like a crazy robot is an important topic."

"True. We'll monitor her carefully," Rachel decides. "As Kurt said, she's bound to crack sometime."

"I think we should pick some sick codenames."

"I'll leave that one to you, Sam."

* * *

Quinn is no different the next day. She's smiling and waving like a perfect politican with an unshakable poker face and a yes-we-can demeanor. Kurt, ordered forcibly by Sam and Rachel, was given the task of trailing Quinn in the hallways as inconspicously as possible, only to report that Quinn's expression rarely changed. Only once did it falter, when she swept by the library. Kurt deemed it to be a "grimace worth using when excavating Rachel's closet of argyle for a dinner date" until Quinn rearranged her features into the bubblegum-happy beam, and had continued on her way without another problem.

The members of glee are wary, but only Sam, Rachel, Kurt, and Santana take an active interest as the others seemingly accept this new-and-improved Quinn, not missing the angry cheerleader. Quinn performs her duet with Finn perfectly, if enthusiastically, both crooning Lady Antebellum's song with a presence and talent to rival the original.

(Mr. Schuester is ecstatic.)

Quinn remains Rachel's offical driver, although Sam steps in occasionally. Kurt tags along.

The Head Cheerio's giddiness doesn't stop, but Rachel notices the tiredness under her eyes only gets worse and worse. Quinn's makeup and smile is the are the only saving graces she has, and others who aren't looking for imperfections don't see anything. Kurt and Rachel see it, and later explain to a confused Sam, who later understands.

Kurt mentions seeing Quinn's grades slip a bit.

"She's on the honor roll," Kurt clarifies quietly, when they're hanging out in Rachel's room. Sam's stretched out on her bed, Kurt sits on her desk chair, and Rachel works on Algebra problems. "I saw her get a seventy-seven on a Chemistry test the other day. That's not like her."

"Mandy hasn't noticed anything out of the ordinary," Rachel murmurs. "I asked."

"I still think we should keep looking," Sam declares, and the other two nod.

* * *

It's another month—an entire month of Quinn bouncing around like she's on speed—before something astoundingly different occurs. Others notice, but say nothing in favor of keeping to themselves. Rachel stares at Quinn constantly, who is suddenly allowing her expression to be blank, empty, neutral. Rachel and Kurt can't help but wonder if she finally hurt her face because she was smiling so much, while Sam hears rumors whispered by Santana from the Cheerios weight-ins; Quinn's losing a lot of weight.

"The Sue-Sylvester Master Cleanse," Santana sneers. "It works like a charm, trust me."

(Sue Sylvester is singing her praises to her 'heir' and Becky Jackson is understandably irritated.)

Quinn hasn't changed around much Rachel. She's still listening diligently, being a good friend (the one of the best she's had), and sometimes joining Rachel for dinner with Rachel's fathers. The Berry clan tries not to stare when Quinn talks, each with different reasons—Hiram for a medical concern, seeing the weariness of her physique, Leroy for an emotional interest, noticing the lack of venting she does, and Rachel for her best friend's stability and happiness. Sam and Kurt don't have answers, neither does Santana. Rachel won't give up; she knows Quinn isn't invincible. The only upside to Quinn's disturbing cheer is that she begins to talk to Rachel.

Sometimes, they just sit outside, shivering a little as fall approaches, the only sounds being the whisper of the wind and the rustling of tree leaves. Other times, when Quinn decides to talk, the blonde admits she's still having nightmares, and realizes she can't watch shows like _Law & Order_ or _CSI_ because she hates the noise of the gunshots. She won't watch _Secret Life of The American Teenager_ because Amy Jergens bitches about having a life when she choose to keep her child.

Rachel visits Shelby twice. Quinn is mysteriously busy each time. Puck drives her, and is adorably awestruck—at least in Rachel's opinion—of Beth. Shelby just smiles.

Even though Quinn's talking, they don't get very far. Bridges built are burnt immediately.

Rachel listens to Quinn's worries, because Quinn's being more honest to her than anyone else, waiting until to what Kurt has dubbed the "iceberg to Quinn's collision".

* * *

The library's been open for a week, Quinn notices. Students use it regularly like nothing's ever happened, and it unsettles her. She finally plucks up the courage to explore it, when glee's over and Sue gladly excuses her from practice, too pleased with her superb routines and Quinn's performance and excellence to care that she's missing precious time to exercise. Sam had driven Rachel home after glee club, and Quinn's been staring at the door for nearly ten minutes now, frozen.

Her hand curls around the cold handle and she steps inside, and catches her breath.

They switched everything around, she manages to comprehend. The shelves and tables are rearranged into another, different order, and the librarian's desk is closer to the doors than before. The room even smells different—like bleach and air freshener. Her heart pounds fast and uncomfortably in her ears as she moves forward.

She walks fifteen paces; she remembers that. Walking cautiously until Rachel had yanked her down.

Quinn's stunned and surprisingly annoyed to find a tacky rug in the exact spot where she and Rachel had leaned against a bookshelf. It's a mixture of brown and green, like old vomit or something found in a grandmother's home, and she honestly wants to burn it, but she doesn't. Her sneakers are blaringly white against it, and she scuffs a toe along the frayed edge, searching floor is almost clear, but the stain—Rachel's blood and Jacob's blood, she recalls seeing so much of it, dark and murky—isn't completely erased. A pinkish hue shines pointedly under her feet, and it's the only indication that something extraordinary had happened here.

Quinn sits down beside it, where she sat for over three hours only two months before. Her mind pauses, stumbling over the thought. Two months? That long?

_"I bet you're wondering why I wanted to find you."_

_"You're the reason I chose to do this._"

She did command a milita of eager bullies, the blonde thinks regretfully. She could have ended harrassment and slushies if she tried. Maybe McKinley would be different. Would she be friends with Rachel? Would Jacob have wanted to kill if his bullying had stopped, or was it too little, too late? Quinn doesn't know.

(She doesn't think she'll ever know the real answer to that question.)

_"Stop trying to justify your innocence, Quinn! You don't have any."_

_"I want you to see the result of your terrible leadership and failure to be a better person."_

She doesn't know if she's a better person. It's hard to tell lately.

Rachel seems to find her engaging—the diva hasn't asked her to leave, not once, and happily accepts the rides to and from school, and listens loyally when Quinn needs to talk. Kurt and Sam have taken a particular interest in hanging out with her, but she can't really find the urge to spend time with anyone other than Rachel. Quinn wants to laugh at the irony—she used to want to be as far away from Rachel Berry as possible, sneering disdainfully at someone so irritating, and now she's the only one Quinn wants to be around because Rachel's in her thoughts lately—but the blonde can't exactly remember when she really laughed because something was funny enough.

The pseudoephedrine keeps her moving. She even is trippy enough to smile, but it's fake, until she's become so _so_ tired and slow that she can only manage to keep going but can't smile anymore—it's a waste of the precious energy she needs to conserve because doesn't have a lot. Quinn's surprised that she's kept it up this long. Her eating habits are smaller, and Sue Sylvester's beyond happy in using her as an example of a perfect Cheerio, parading her around to the other twenty girls as someone to idolize.

Santana stares at her. Rachel stares at her. Kurt, Sam, and Mandy stare. It bothers her.

She's opening up to Rachel, isn't that enough? Granted it's mostly about Beth and not what she wants to say, but still...the distance is great. She feels like she's separated by a glass wall, just looking at everyone else live happily while she deals with her own issues apart from the rest of the world, alone and different, like a lower species.

She wants to take up Leroy's offer, but she's so tired after school, glee, and Cheerios that he's out of the question. It's just one thing too many. Like smiling.

Smiling is offically off the to-do list.

* * *

The next day, during English, when she's feeling more sluggish and slower than usual, she blinks once. The classroom seems to swim in her vision, blurring along the edges and distorting in the middle, creating a kaleidoscope of confusion. The sight is so similar to 3D films that Quinn stupidly reaches for her eyes to take the colored glasses off when she realizes she doesn't even have any on and made a total idiot out of herself.

A paper is placed on her desk—an essay. Quinn squints at the red scribbles, and makes out: _C-_.

"Try harder next time," her teacher tuts, and moves on. Quinn rolls her eyes.

When she makes it to History and her teacher drones on and on about the Progressive Era, Quinn stares blankly. When has everyone suddenly looked the same all of a sudden? It's like twenty identical boys sitting around her, taking notes and snorting with nasally, annoying laughter. The teacher even looks just like—wait, Quinn thinks as her pulse jumps into a sprint and her breath shortens—no, he's not here anymore, it's not possible, it can't be, it has to be a mistake, the drugs, no sleep, she's—

"Quinn?" Jacob, dressed in her teacher's clothes, asks, almost looking concerned. "Are you okay?"

Ten more Jacob's turn to face her, some looking at her chest, some passing notes, others whispering, and all stare with those empty, creepy eyes and pallid, sweaty, pale complexions. Her skin crawls with disgust and fear and she feels like she about to faint from the combined horrors and paranoia.

"Um, I think I should go to the nurse," she chokes out, abandoning her poorly scrawled notes, grabbing her bag and striding nervously out of the room before the Jewish-boy-teacher-imposter-man can reply. She's racing through the hallway, her feet clattering noisily against the floor and she ducks inside a bathroom, slamming a stall door shut and throwing up what's left in her stomach. It's practically nothing anyway, just bile and an ache and pain and she finally can breathe again.

Quinn exhales deeply through her nose, her skin still prickling as she shivers. She's been so cold in the past few days, and she just can't warm enough. She rests her weight on the stall's wall, regulating her breathing. Her chest is constricted and her breath slowly returns to normal. Her intestines seem to desire escaping her body, but she clamps her teeth firmly together and lets her head clear the disorientation as her eyes settle on the graffiti. It's old, some from the eighties, most from the past five years.

Quinn recognizes her own looping handwriting, insults usually pertaining to Rachel and those horrible drawings she used to do in her spare time between classes. The pornographic pictures were originally a passing party joke from Santana, but Quinn was the one to actually doodle them all over the bathroom. Looking back, she's kind of embarrassed. Normally, you'd find pictures like that in a boy's restroom. What on earth possessed Quinn to even laugh about them, let alone write a few?

(Something she'd rather not think about, but it involves Rachel Berry, her body, and her mind numbing kisses. But no way was she going to think about that. She's just...not going to think about it. Right.)

Then they spread to her notebooks—something Rachel had definitely seen but didn't comment.

Rachel's more noble than Quinn will ever be, and it's makes her feel equal portions of happy and sad. Happy that Rachel will always remain exactly the way she is, superiorly proud of her talent, likes, and personality and will carry that on to the inevitable stardom she'll attain the future. Sad that Quinn herself will never be a honest, pure, and forgiving person that her religion requests, and worse, she can't find it in herself to try anymore. She's drifting aimlessly, and only Judy goes to church on Sundays.

Quinn searches through her bag and finds a Sharpie, and her lips quirk slightly.

When the door shuts and she disappears to find a new place to think, dozens of black scribbles and lines cover the mean-spirited pornographic images, nearly defacing the stall she occupied and the other four in the bathroom. Instead of insults to Rachel, Quinn scrawled dozens of insults about herself in every stall so all would see them. And for some unknown reason, it feels good. Cathartic, like she's releasing her anger.

(It's probably her Vitamin D addled brain, but she knows also it's her conscious, and maybe a little karma too.)

She wonders later if someone will laugh at them, and finds herself hoping for it. She deserves that, doesn't she? According to Jacob, at least.

* * *

Quinn misses three classes while in the bathroom, and unfortunately misses lunch. Whatever.

She leans her elbow on the back of a chair in the deserted choir room, and adjusts her head to rest on her hand, keeping her head propped up so she can close her eyes and rest. Just a moment and she'll be ready for glee practice. She's been going flat recently (Rachel told her so—who else would know?) and it bothers her. Quinn knows that her lack of appetite and sleep could contribute to that, but she resolves to think of that later. Now, she was just resting her eyes. Only a few seconds, and then she'll move.

Her dreams are dark, and her eyelids feel like lead weights, dragging her down, trapping her in unconsciousness.

Jacob's still cackling as she wakes up with a shuddering gasp, and finds Sam standing over her.

"You don't look too good, Quinn," he says.

"I know."

"Seriously, you look like a cancer patient. You need to take care of yourself," Sam insists.

"I understand," she murmurs.

"Everyone's left you alone since you stopped running around like a psycho," her fellow blonde remarks sternly, crossing his arms. "Even Rachel. Well, I've had enough of you dragging yourself around like a zombie. It's time to revive you, Quinn. You aren't healthy anymore, and it shows. The only one happy about this is Coach Sylvester, only because you're pushing yourself three times harder than usual, and it's more than your body can take. I get it, Quinn. I do. You're not eating."

"You don't know anything," Quinn says dully. "I'm not like you in any way."

"Yes, you are," Sam counters. "First of all, we're blondes. Second, we're jocks. Third—"

"Is there point anywhere in your stupid speech or can I go back to sleeping?"

"Third," Sam continues firmly, "we both have body issues."

"I don't have body issues, Sam. You've been watching too much television," Quinn snaps tiredly.

"Then explain to me how you lost fifteen pounds in two weeks," Sam retorts.

"Exercise," Quinn says slowly, like he's four. "You know...cheerleading? Why? Did Santana spy on me for you?"

"No. Santana keeps her weight and still looks better than you do. I've watched you at lunchtimes, Quinn. You don't touch your food, and when questioned, you mumble something about a big breakfast. All of us have heard it so many times we just don't ask you because we know you're lying."

"Wow," Quinn exclaims nastily, "you've solved the mystery, Fred! Good job!"

"Don't try to distract me with a Scooby Doo reference," Sam warns. "I'm serious."

"No, I'm serious. I'm so fucking sick of you all watching me and whispering. Do you honestly think I don't notice? That I don't see your little powwows when I'm not there? I practically invented that. It's pretty pathetic," Quinn snarls, snatching her bag and stalking out of the room as fast as she can.

Sam mutters a swear as Kurt and Rachel enter the room, several minutes later after Quinn's gone, both divas eyeing him hopefully. "Mission aborted," Sam sighs. "Failure."

"The bad cop routine didn't work?" Kurt asks. "Damn it."

"I thought it would do the trick," Sam groans. "Back to square one."

"Wait!" Rachel yelps suddenly, startling them both. "I've just had an epiphany!"

* * *

Quinn reminds herself vaguely of an owl. Those unblinking, blank eyes, roving head business.

(Quinn wonders why her brain seems to think of the strangest things.)

Her eyes have watered with sticky tears, like her brain was begging her to blink and fall asleep for hours and recuperate. Her head swims in confusion and globs of color and noise, and she can barely understand her native language anymore, which is just _sad_. Sentences are garbled and she usually catches the ends and the gist, but that's it.

Maybe Santana could be her own personal translator. Santana can decipher her broken Spanglish. Nah. That would involve converting her befuddled mind into comprehensible, gramatically correct Spanish, and she doesn't really want to make an effort in anything worthwhile nowadays.

Her eyes have been way out-of-whack lately. She doesn't trust her own vision anymore—her dreams are mixing seamlessly into reality. Sometimes she sees Jacob chatting within a group, and others, his face on a jock's body, laughing. She's half scared, half uncaring. He isn't real, no matter how much she sees him. Then Quinn acknowledges that she'll keep seeing him around because the pills she stole from the nurse's office are the only things keeping her awake and mobile. She should be passed out by now.

Sheer willpower keeps Quinn Fabray from collapsing. She's a little proud.

Quinn sits down at a table, luckily recognizing Brittany's giggles when listening for them.

"Whoa," Brittany breathes. "You look awful."

"Seconded," Santana comments, uneasy. Quinn looks uncannily similar to the walking dead.

Quinn shrugs.

"Anything to eat, Q?" Santana asks uncertainly. "You're skin and bones over there."

"I have a drink," Quinn murmurs, vacant and listless, fishing the Sue Sylvester Master Cleanse from her bag.

"Don't drink that," Santana orders fiercely, almost pleadingly. "You don't need it."

"Of course I do," Quinn utters coldly, but her voice quickly loses inflection and emotion.

She eyes the drink, feeling her stomach churn noisily like a washing machine. She can feel the dizziness returning like clockwork, and the bottomless hunger clawing her insides. The nausea and sleep deprivation combine in a sickening cloud of queasiness and she wants to scream but can't because her throat is raw and hurts too badly. The pseudoephedrine makes her jumpy and paranoid and she downs the Sue Sylvester Master Cleanse with shaking hands. It's worth it.

Quinn has to be perfect. If perfect means if taking Vitamin D and drinking the SSMC without sleeping, then so be it. She doesn't have her title as Head Cheerio for nothing.

Her stomach squirms uncomfortably and she stands up unsteadily from the lunch table, swaying slightly.

Brittany's hand tightens on her wrist as she nearly careens sideways. Brittany's mouth is moving, and Quinn struggles to focus her eyes and ears.

"...wrong with you?" The other blonde seems to be asking.

"I'm fine, m'fine," Quinn answers groggily, sounding warped and like she's drunk again. She shakes off Brittany's grip, who wilts and eyes Quinn unhappily, as Santana frowns, looking scared all of a sudden. "I...I—have to-to go to class now," the shorter blonde mumbles, walking slower than usual, her head bowed.

The drink has not made her better. She's worse as ever, and her body will betray her eventually. No sleep, no food, and no control, and later, she'll lose it all.

* * *

"Hold!" Sue roars into her megaphone. "Lance, if I catch you crying one more time, I swear..."

Quinn blinks languidly from the top of the pyramid, feeling the wind graze her face. She feels like she's disconnected from her body, like a ghost, and it's unsettling. Her empty stomach claws her insides, and she grimaces, hiding her discomfort. Santana is looking, she notices, and Quinn panics. Calm, calm, calm, she thinks. No one'll notice.

She squints as her vision blurs slightly, trying to see better. Sue continues to watch the formation from the bleachers, needlessly having them stay in position so she can study the least effective cheerleaders. Quinn shivers—when did it get so cold?—and forces her eyes wide open, even though it hurts. Nausea teeters behind her lips and she grinds her teeth. Focus. Focus. Focus...she just wants to sleep, honestly. Sleeping makes everything better. She _can't_ though. Not anymore. Sleeping is bad.

Quinn breathes deeply. Her brain shrieks for her to surrender. Sleep, sleep, _forget_, hide, sleep—

"Fabray!" Sue yells, no doubt spotting her quivering knees and chattering teeth. "Hold still!"

Quinn feels her stomach jerk and her mouth tastes like sawdust and mixed ingredients from the devastating weight loss cocktail she downed and her eyes close unwillingly as if they're glued together as she struggles to breathe properly while her chest tightens around her lungs and her heart thumps painfully on her ribcage—the Cheerios on the pyramid below are screaming her name—the blonde coughs and flails, flying backwards into darkness as she just lets herself lose, lets herself give up and black out.


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter eight, readers. The _brief_ Spanish word in this is from an online translator, so apologies if it's wrong. The drug references/slang are from Internet sources, so they might be questionable. Hope you all enjoy, and if anyone has Live Journal advice, PM me if possible! Thank you!**

**

* * *

**

Quinn's rest is, predictably, ruined.

"Q!"

Who's voice is so damn grating? She's trying to fucking sleep, thank you very much.

"Speak to me, Fabray!" Sue Sylvester demands, and Quinn groans. Of course. The devil herself.

Quinn feels prickly grass against her skin, and the harsh, bitter wind scratching her face.

"How many fingers I am holding up?" Sue persists, and the Head Cheerio opens her eyes.

The sky is a blinding, picturesque blue, and faces swim in her vision, blurring into varying blobs of color. Reality clouds back and forth, and the blonde manages to see flashes of Santana's stricken expression, troubled with worry, Brittany's, gentle with concern, the rest of the cheerleaders, standing silently over her in a tight huddle, and lastly, Coach Sylvester closest, frowning anxiously before the world mixes into a psychedelic, vibrant display of hues and tones.

Quinn squints, seeing several angry copies of Sue, and her eyes lower to the pale digits nearby.

"Eight. Have you always had eight fingers?" Quinn wonders woozily, going slightly cross-eyed.

Brittany giggles before Santana claps a firm hand to her mouth, and Sue exhales, frustrated.

"What _exactly_ have you _done_, Fabray?" Sue thunders, and Quinn blanches at the noise.

"I don't know," Quinn answers hoarsely, choking up. "I don't know. Everything...I caused it all. I did it. Jacob, he was right—I want to care, I do care about things...he yelled at me, before, before," she croaks. "I can't do anything right anymore, Coach," she adds desperately, the squad and coach staring above her as she lies defeated on the grass, "I don't do my homework and I can't remember what to sing or what to do and my head just hurts. I don't even sleep anymore..."

Sue and the Cheerios watch in mingled horror and pity as Quinn closes her eyes again, quieting.

The coach stands up, sighing, before switching her megaphone on and bellowing: "Puckerman!"

Quinn flinches again at the volume as a pair of delicate hands cradle her head, and hears Brittany's soft reassurances near her ears, a soothing mantra to her distress. Santana is further away, holding her hand and struggling to find something to do to help Quinn, as the blonde listens to the sound of heavy feet against the grass.

"What the fuck happened?" A boy yells—_Puck_, Quinn thinks, relieved—and Sue snorts.

"Language, Puckerman. If I hear that again I'll smack you down faster than you can say 'Shalom'. Pick up Fabray here, and Santana, you call 911. Quinn's overdosed on something. I know the signs. I've studied them extensively. I worked as a NARC in over ten school systems. Fabray's probably on the rocks, casper, tragic magic, fry daddies, crank, ice, uppers, black Cadillacs, herbal fuel, fizzies, frogs...I could go on forever. I predicted something like this to happen. It's all in the eyes. And Fabray's got 'em."

"_Ay dios mio_," Santana mutters, and sprinting sneakers fade from earshot while Quinn groans.

Sue Sylvester moonlighted as a NARC. Why wasn't she surprised?

Quinn feels muscular biceps curl under her knees and against her shoulder blades, holding her to a toned chest. She can't open her eyes—it's like they're welded shut—but manages to recognize Puck by the necklace under his football uniform; the small Star of David pendant, supported by a thick chain. She distantly how he explained that he received it from his grandmother when he was a kid and never took it off (and also what attracted him to Rachel, she had a similar one). She feels a deep, dark chuckle.

"Puck?" She rasps.

"Trying to cop a feel, Quinn? I'm not falling for it. You're sick or something, but it would be like old times, right?"

"Never again, Puckerman," she mumbles, and he laughs lightly.

"Hey! Noah! Stop!" A faraway voice hollers, and Quinn murmurs an exhausted swear.

Two sets of feet and the creak of wheels makes Puck cease in his tracks, and Rachel squeaks.

"What happened?"

"She fainted," Puck answers, shifting Quinn's weight a little.

"Proves my theory," Kurt interjects, and the sound of Rachel's scoff fills the vicinity.

"It was _my_ idea, Kurt," Rachel snaps, and Puck huffs, continuing on his way.

Quinn hears the constant motion of the wheelchair, and figures Sam must be pushing it along to keep up with them.

"Quinn's been using pseudoephedrine medication," Rachel informs him disapprovingly.

"What the hell is that?"

"Vitamin D," Kurt barks out. "The pills we used during the mashup competition."

"I thought something was off about her a month ago when she was acting strange, but I didn't have any evidence. She must've stolen them from the nurse's office where Mr. Schue's ex-wife kept them. They kept her awake, but the effects were obvious. Nervousness, excitability, dizziness, mydriasis—blurred vision—and it's a wonder she hasn't had a stroke or a seizure yet with the increased heart rate. Quinn was a ticking bomb with those pills in her bloodstream," Rachel explains promptly, and Quinn can practically see the infuriated glare fixed on her now. Puck sighs.

"Check it out, the ambulance is already here," Sam says.

Puck continues walking and Quinn hears two new voices, one male and one female. They ask what happened, Puck tells them stiffly that she fainted, falling off the pyramid but was caught before she reached the ground by the boys on the squad. They ask if she hit her head, Puck says he isn't sure.

Puck places her on the gurney, where gloved hands search her scalp, checking for bumps.

"Did your coach say anything else?"

"We know now she's been taking pseudoephedrine pills," Rachel replies coolly.

The EMTs tighten the straps on the gurney, and wrap a brace around her neck, just in case. The cot is lifted higher, sliding into the trunk. Quinn is close to sleeping, but listens anyway to the others as a breathing mask is pressed over her face by the other EMT and adjusted to stay on.

"I'm going with you to the hospital," Puck pipes up immediately.

"No, I am," Rachel protests.

"You can't, miss," the male voice argues, sounding exasperated. "You're in a wheelchair."

"That didn't stop Franklin Delano Roosevelt from becoming President of the United States! _Four_ times!"

"Shut up, Berry," Puck mutters wearily, and the loud stomping of Puck's cleats against metal, clambering to sit down with the attending female hurts Quinn's ears. Rachel huffs, aggravated before the double doors are slammed shut and the ambulance starts, the sirens whirring loudly.

The fast jerking of the vehicle almost make her sick, but she manages to relax, feeling drowsy.

"Is this your girlfriend?" The female asks, for something to say.

The last thing Quinn hears before she's completely out is Puck's annoyingly stupid reply: "...nah. She's my baby mama. It all started with a fat day and a few wine coolers..."

* * *

Mandy's reading the newspaper for job listings when the phone rings, and she wanders over to answer it.

"Hello, Fabray residence."

"Mandy?"

"Santana?"

"Hey, thank God I caught you at home," Santana says heavily, sounding like she's jogging. "—Britt, get in the car, hurry—There was an accident at practice today, Mandy. Quinn fainted."

"Is she okay?"

"No. Coach told us she must've overdosed on something. She's been weird and slow all day—I saw her almost keel over at lunch today...I don't even think she ate anything—and actually, she's been weird for awhile, now that I think about it. She can't sing very well anymore, she's dead on her feet, her grades are falling, she's losing weight, the whole nine yards. I haven't been a good enough friend to confront her about it. Anyway, they took her to the hospital."

"I'll be on my way. I need to call my mother," Mandy says, her face white.

"See you there," Santana replies, and hangs up.

Mandy's already dialing, and her mother's cheery greeting only makes her worry heighten.

"Mom? Hey, it's me. Listen, there was an accident—Quinn's in the hospital."

* * *

"Will! Will!"

Will Schuester looks up in surprise from his Spanish tests, red marker still poised in the air. Emma Pillsbury sprints into his office, frantically pointing over her shoulder.

"It's Quinn...they took her to the hospital. She fell off the pyramid."

Will doesn't pause to think, just grabs his jacket and they both run for his car, buckling seatbelts and speeding out of the parking lot, while Will glances at Emma worriedly.

"What happened, exactly?"

"I heard from Kurt that she's been taking those...those medications your, um, Terri gave."

Will pales. "For how long?"

"The entire month, maybe longer," Emma answers uncertainly, looking close to tears. "Everyone saw the change, but no one wanted to question it. I regret that now, I should have done my job better, talked to her before it got out of hand," the redhead mumbles. "I could've stopped it."

"Hey, hey, this isn't your fault alone," Will consoles. "It's everyone's. Mostly mine. Quinn made a bad decision but there's a lot of people, including me, who should've asked her. It's not just you, trust me. I should be blamed, I see her in two classes—if anyone, I should have seen it and confronted her."

"How about we share the blame?" Emma suggests anxiously, wringing her hands.

"That sounds good," Will admits. "Maybe write a nice long apology for sucking as teachers?"

"Perfect," Emma sighs.

The rest of the ride is spent in guilty, unhappy silence.

* * *

They're the last ones to reach the waiting room at Lima General, already crammed to capacity with the entire glee club, Judy Fabray, Mandy Fabray, Leroy Berry, and Sue Sylvester. Will and Emma hurry over to Leroy, who solemnly explains that they've just been waiting for Hiram all this time, who is Quinn's attending doctor (luckily for them) and for him to return with news. Will stands against the wall, a fidgeting Emma at his side.

Rachel's tapping a quick beat on her wheelchair, her face dark with distress and lips pursed in thought. Puck's shifting his weight from foot to foot, Kurt and Sam are sharing a magazine, but both aren't really engaged in reading it. Santana has her head in Brittany's lap, both wearing expressions of fear and anxiety. Mike is playing distractedly with Tina's hair, Artie's muttering with Finn and Mercedes, while Mandy and Judy Fabray stand close to Sue, who is oddly quiet.

The clock ticks poignantly into the tense, silent atmosphere, and Santana remembers when the situation was different, when they were all waiting on Rachel's health. Instead, the petite diva currently sits across the room, desperation glazed over in her eyes for any clue that Quinn's okay.

After an hour and a half, Hiram appears, and a swarm of approaching bodies threatens him until Sue flashes a glare and all retreat backwards, except for the two Fabrays.

"She's going to be fine," Hiram says without preamble, and relieved sighs fill the air. "Judy, Mandy? I'd like to speak with you privately for a moment."

* * *

"Quinn's stabilized now," Hiram tells them. "But I wanted you both to know how it happened."

"We've heard a few stories about her lack of sleep and interest," Judy offers, hesitant.

"And weight loss," Mandy adds. Hiram nods.

"Yes. From what my daughter said, Quinn was understandably upset with the shooting. Her personality dimmed, and Rachel informed me that she just looked tired and unhappy for quite some time now. Leroy mentioned insomnia, but I think it was self-induced. She could be struggling with depression," Hiram explains. "Quinn somehow got her hands on pseudoephedrine, a sympathomimetic drug often used as a decongestant or wakefulness promoting agent in brands like Sudafed or Claritin-D to stay alert. From what I can tell, she's been using the pills to stay awake, and recently, drinking something to prevent weight gain."

"What drink?" Judy breathes.

"That cheerleading thing," Mandy says. "Santana told me. Coach has them drink it to be thinner."

"That," Hiram nods again gravely, "combined with her constant exercise, sleep deprivation, almost nonexistent eating, and the side effects of the pills—hypertension, anxiety, hallucinations, paranoia, mydriasis—would eventually result in either stroke, seizures, or a heart attack."

Judy covers her mouth, as her eyes fill with tears. "I didn't even think to say anything to her..."

"Neither did I, Mom," Mandy reassures sadly. "But she'll recover, right?"

"Of course," Hiram nods. "Physically. Emotionally, though, is my husband's area of expertise."

"Leroy, the psychiatrist?" Judy questions. "I'll make an appointment."

"Free of charge, we'll have to insist," Hiram says. "Quinn deserves that."

"Can we see her?"

"Follow me."

* * *

Quinn's still sleeping when they reach her, both blondes sitting on the end of her bed, unable to sit any further away than that. Mandy examines the striking gauntness of her sister's face, making her look almost skeletal in the low lighting. Quinn's breathing is slow and deep, as an IV feeds into her right wrist.

Judy brushes strand of hair from Quinn's pale face, sighing dejectedly.

"I thought I could be a better mother to both of you," Judy murmurs. "I haven't been."

"Don't beat yourself up, Mom," Mandy orders. "We both made this mistake. Not just you."

"I'll make it up to her," Judy says firmly, like she's speaking to herself. "I have to."

A nurse enters the room, carrying a vase of orchids. "These just came for her, poor thing."

"Who are they from?" Mandy asks. The nurse offers the attached card and leaves, and Mandy turns it over to read it.

Her face darkens, and Judy sees her tear the paper in half, scowling.

"What did it say?"

"Nothing," Mandy lies, "just someone who saw Quinn carried in. Random stranger."

"Oh. That was nice of them, I suppose," Judy says, and turns back to Quinn.

Mandy puts the vase near the door so Quinn won't see it, and throws the torn pieces of paper into the trash, where a message in Russell Fabray's penmanship is discarded.

* * *

The group is still waiting when Mandy comes back about an hour later, looking exhausted. "She's asleep, but—"

"I want to see her," Santana interrupts, standing up, Brittany at her heels. "She's my best friend."

"I brought her here, I should," Puck snaps. "I'm her baby daddy!"

"She's my best friend and I'm hers, and her confidante, I should go," Rachel interjects angrily.

"I need to apologize," Mr. Schuester and Ms. Pillsbury add, smiling hopefully.

"You can do that shit later," Puck growls. "Friends first, then stupid teachers. Duh."

"I'm her coach and she's my heir, I'll go," Sue remarks. "Miscreants."

"She's my girl!" Mercedes calls irritably. "Me first!"

"She hasn't been 'your girl' for months now, Aretha," Santana snarls. "Get lost."

"Everyone just shut up!" Mandy yells, and the protests quiet. "I'll decide who goes."

Without pausing to consider anyone else, the blonde unceremoniously yanks the handles of Rachel's wheelchair and vanishes through the double doors, the diva's triumphant smirk over her shoulder the last image of the two before the doors close completely, shutting the group out.

"What the f—" Puck manages before Leroy's glare makes him close his mouth, sheepish.

"That's ridiculous," Santana exclaims. "Berry gets to go before me?"

"Considering last time we were here, you and Quinn beat each other up," Finn offers helpfully. "Or so we heard."

"Finnocence, shut up for once, will you?"

"She and Rachel are pretty close now," Tina interrupts, oblivious to Santana's glower.

"And we aren't?" Santana mutters.

"No. Quinn drives Rachel to school all the time," Sam adds, slightly defensively. "They're very good friends."

Kurt peers curiously at Sam's profile, but the blonde boy doesn't look away from Santana.

"Whatever," the Latina concedes, sitting down again with Brittany. Sam smirks.

"What's that look for?" Kurt whispers.

"I won an argument with her," Sam explains under his breath. "That never happens."

Kurt eyes him closely. "They're something you're not telling me."

"I'll give you a hint," Sam smiles mischievously. "You have one that works."

"What the heck does that mean?"

Sam just laughs. "You'll figure it out."

* * *

"She's probably still...oh, good," Mandy sighs in relief, seeing Quinn's eyes open, blinking slowly as Judy holds her hand. Mandy pushes the wheelchair forward, and Rachel simply can't look away from Quinn if she tried. Mandy murmurs about the cafeteria, and when Judy looks close to protesting, Quinn mumbles an 'I'll-be-fine', and Judy reluctantly departs with Mandy in tow. Rachel wheels herself closer to the bed, and the blonde gives her a slow, sad smile of greeting.

"I'm wish you had told me," Rachel says quietly.

"I should've," Quinn croaks.

"How did you last so long?"

"Willpower," Quinn offers hesitantly. "...that's about it. The pills just keep me going."

"Did you ever think about the consequences, Quinn?"

"N—"

"Did you even pause and wonder how this would affect your body?" Rachel demands. "Or possibly that you could have had a heart attack if you were all alone and died?"

"Rachel—"

"Did you stop and think about how this would hurt your mother? Mandy? _Me_? The club?"

"Hold on a second—"

"No. No, Quinn. I won't hold on. I won't stop yelling at you until you understand! For a month, you took those pills to get by, and all you did was delay the issue, delay the inevitable! You said you would talk to me," Rachel whispers furiously, as Quinn looks away in shame, "and all you did was explain how you don't watch television anymore. I've tried to be a better friend to you than anyone else has but you just diverted me with stories of Beth, something that could easily be fixed. My daddy could've talked to you whenever you wanted, and you just ignored it. We've all tried to help you, Quinn, and you've thrown it in our faces in favor of nearly killing yourself!"

Rachel inhales for breath, while Quinn stares blankly at the wall, unable to speak.

"I want to know why, Quinn. Why resort to pills when talking and sleeping could've helped?"

"Nightmares," Quinn breathes.

"What?"

"Nightmares. Of him. I stole the Vitamin D to stay awake so I wouldn't have to deal with them."

Rachel blinks, her expression morphing into chagrin.

"Don't apologize. You're right," Quinn says softly, twisting the sheet in her hands. "It was just hard to...open up. I got into the habit of blocking it out and continuing on with my day—I thought that if I kept going, kept singing, cheering, moving, it would go away eventually."

"It didn't," Rachel guesses correctly.

"No. The medication started to mess with my head," Quinn admits.

"How?"

"Hallucinations," Quinn says darkly. "I sat in History and about ten Jacobs looked right at me."

"No," Rachel whispers.

"Yeah. I just wanted to avoid it all. If I didn't talk about it, maybe I'd forget it. But then I went to the library and saw the bloodstains and I don't know, it was a combined effort. I drank that stupid Master Cleanse that Ms. Sylvester has for the Cheerios to stay fit," Quinn sighs, rubbing her eyes. "I must've gotten a sense of vertigo on top of the horrible sleep deprivation thing."

"And anorexia," Rachel reminds her.

"I'm not anorexic," Quinn glares, but lacks the power behind it. She just looks weak and frail.

"You barely ate anything at all recently," Rachel retorts.

"I ate some things," Quinn argues. "I didn't stop completely. Here and there to get by. Just enough for me."

They are silent for a few minutes.

"About Beth," Quinn recalls, slightly coolly. "It's not 'easily fixed', as you put it."

"I just thought—"

"You didn't think about if I was ready. You assumed I was because Puck was. The decision to see my—Beth—is my own. Shelby adopted her. She isn't mine anymore, Rachel. She's taken care of, just like I wanted. I'll think about seeing her, and if I'm ready, I'll let Shelby know, not you."

Rachel lowers her gaze to the floor, and Quinn drags a hand over her face, frustrated.

"Sorry."

"No, you're right. I don't understand. I won't understand, until I have a child of my own."

"Stay away from Puck, then," Quinn jokes feebly, and Rachel smiles.

"I just want you to get better, Quinn," Rachel says softly, reaching higher until she's intertwined Quinn's hand with her own, feeling Quinn's fingers twitch slightly in response. "You're my best friend, you know that? Why wouldn't I try every way to help speed the process?"

"Santana mustn't be pleased," Quinn quips. Rachel's smile widens.

"Oh, she isn't. All of us almost had a slapfight back in the waiting room. Everyone was adding their two cents about why they should see you—including Puck's terrible 'baby mama' nickname and Mr. Schuester and Ms. Pillsbury wanting to 'apologize'—but Mandy picked me over them."

"Why would they want to apologize to me?"

"Bystander's guilt, I think," Rachel says. "Maybe being oblivious."

"If anything, they should heap that on you," Quinn remarks firmly.

"What? Why?"

"For everything, Rachel," Quinn nearly-shouts, but manages to keep her cool. "Santana...well, she used to sling insults at you every other period. Mercedes and Kurt still want your solos and Mr. Schuester stood by and let them. I even used to belittle you in front of his face and you either took it, threw it back, or did nothing while Mr. Schue sat there and preached about togetherness."

She's close to hyperventilating from the vocal exertion while Rachel just stares at her.

"And don't even get me started on Ms. Pillsbury. She's a guidance counselor. It's her job to observe kids and reach out to the ones she thinks are hurt. You've gone to her, right, but has she really helped you accomplish anything? She and Mr. Schue are a match made in heaven, I think."

"Ms. Pillsbury's dating the dentist," Rachel blurts out, confused.

"Is that all you heard, Rachel?" Quinn questions, amused.

"No," the diva protests, blushing adorably. "I mean, I think it's lovely how you noticed all of that. Finn never did. He just—"

"Sat there," Quinn interjects, nodding. "Exactly."

Rachel's grin simply _sparkles_ like sunlight on snow and before Quinn can even comprehend what just happened, Rachel turns the wheelchair, uses her arms as leverage, pushes backwards, lands on the foot of the hospital bed, and already is giving her a sweet, short kiss on the lips, and smirks—that's a Cheerios thing, copycat!—at Quinn's dumbfounded, stunned expression before settling comfortably, her legs dangling off the side, one slightly hindered in motion by her cast.

"Did Artie teach you that, Catwoman? Or are you a ninja?"

"Yes, he did," Rachel beams delightedly, restraining herself from clapping. "He told me, and I quote, 'it's all about the upper-body strength' and on a more distasteful note from his sketchier side, 'ain't no carpool lane to sexy', but I think that's more from Sam's way of thinking."

Quinn raises an eyebrow. "'Ain't no carpool lane to sexy'? What the heck?"

"I know, right?" Rachel laughs. "Sam's weird."

"When d'you get out of your wheelchair?" Quinn asks.

"In a few days, finally," the diva says, grinning. "Then I can keep up with you."

Rachel lapses into silence, her eyes flickering to the heart monitor with an almost mischievous smile, while Quinn struggles to calm down. Honestly, what was Finn thinking when he and Rachel broke up? Probably something along the lines of losing the best makeout buddy ever. (Not that she cares about that. _Really._)

"You keep kissing me," Quinn wonders.

"Yes."

"Is there a reason for it?"

"Hmm. Not really. I did it before to make sure you weren't nervous."

"And now?"

"Just because," Rachel shrugs nonchalantly. "Doesn't have to mean anything."

"No," Quinn says automatically. "It doesn't."

To deflect the sudden uncomfortable twinge in her chest, she pats the spot next to her.

"Lay down?"

Rachel shifts, and both move until they're lying down, staring at the ceiling. Rachel huffs.

"I don't like this color. Why are hospitals so blandly painted?"

Quinn chuckles. "Maybe to keep their patients relaxed."

"It's mildly depressing. Oh! Maybe that's why people are here so long. In my opinion, hospitals should be bright and energetic! Like upbeat reds, or brilliant oranges! Wouldn't that be nice?"

"No, honestly. It would probably cause heart attacks."

Rachel pouts. "Red is passionate."

"Red means blood and gore," Quinn insists.

"Well, blue is depressing, yellow is blinding, purple is annoying...what else is there?"

"I think you've spent a little too much time thinking about this," Quinn observes.

"I was in my hospital room for quite awhile," Rachel sulks. "Besides watching pathetic daytime television and learning Na'vi, there wasn't much else to do. I couldn't even practice my scales."

"The horror!" Quinn mock-gasps.

"Exactly!"

Quinn's smile becomes sleepy, and Rachel giggles fondly at the sight.

"I'm really tired," the blonde says, almost surprised at the fact. "I've been tired."

"So sleep, silly."

"It's not that easy," Quinn mumbles, nearly half-under. "What if I have nightmares?"

"I'll always be here to help you," Rachel smiles encouragingly, and notices Quinn is already asleep, her face calm and serene, a look that Rachel had not seen since Quinn's pregnancy. The brunette allows herself a moment to survey the exhausted cheerleader before letting her own eyes close and drift into unconsciousness.

* * *

Mandy and Judy return with coffees and find both girls asleep in Quinn's bed.

"How did she get up there?" Mandy inquires, snickering. "Rachel must be Spiderwoman."

"Amanda," Judy chides. "Quinn's finally sleeping. That's good, remember?"

"Right. Even though she and Rachel look very comfortable to me."

Judy rolls her eyes good naturedly.

"Should I send the other kids packing?"

"Yes. Quinn's clearly not up for more visitors," Judy nods.

"Yes, ma'am," Mandy mock-salutes, and hears Judy's quiet laugh as she leaves, grinning.

Half the grin is at her sister's cluelessness, though. Really, Quinn is so freaking blind. Whatever. That's her darling little sister's problem. No way was Mandy going to get involved, aside from teasing advice, maybe. Quinn's romantic life was a tangled web anyway. Rachel was yet another one caught in it, even if Quinn would never admit that. She didn't have to, Mandy thinks, hiding a smirk. It's obvious. As soon as Mandy reaches the waiting room, the other glee members stir, looking at her eagerly.

"Show's over! Quinn will see you guys another time," she says, and Santana stomps her foot.

"No way! What room is she in, A?"

"_Adios_, Santana."

"_Puta_!"

"Yeah, yeah," Mandy waves her hand as the teenagers, teachers, and coach shuffle out of the room, grumbling about favoritism and in Sue's case, Quinn's 'drug' addictions. Santana allows Brittany to drag her away, mouthing obscene curses at Mandy, who smirks, and mimics her.

Leroy Berry is the only one left, and Mandy smiles at him.

"Rachel's asleep," she informs him. Leroy nods.

"How's Quinn doing?"

"Tired, but I think Rachel might've made some headway into my sister's thick skull."

Leroy laughs. "That's good news. If you can, will you remind her that I'm around to listen? She didn't appear to really remember that point. I would offer a professional opinion and ear, if she'd let me."

"That's right—you're the psychiatrist," Mandy says, excited. "I dropped out of law school to be one. I haven't started studying yet. Or actually done anything. I just sit around the house."

"I have an internship open," Leroy offers. "But you should enroll before I hire you."

"That would be awesome, thank you," Mandy cheers. Leroy grins.

"If you don't mind me asking, why did you chose this profession?"

"My sister," Mandy answers promptly. "I want to help her get better."

"She will," Leroy replies, his eyes twinkling. "We're all here to help."

* * *

Quinn is released from Lima General after several days, with strict orders from Hiram to rest up. The day Rachel stayed over was probably her best sleep in a long time, and the subsequent days following are not as pleasant, but she manages to look less like a zombie. The nurse and Quinn, with Rachel and Mandy watching amusedly on, argue over Quinn leaving in a wheelchair. The younger blonde crosses her arms stubbornly and the nurse glares at her.

"It's hospital policy," the nurse squawks.

"I don't care!"

"You're on your own," Mandy states when the nurse looks to her for help. "Sorry."

"You're too weak to walk," the nurse protests desperately. "Dr. Berry said so."

"Dr. Berry is a friend of mine," Quinn snaps—Rachel stifles a chuckle at this, "So, ergo, I can ignore said friend's 'advice'."

"Personal matters don't affect a doctor's diagnosis," the nurse yells. "Get in the wheelchair, Ms. Fabray!"

"Make me!" Quinn shouts.

"Alright, that's enough," Mandy says, red in the face in the effort of not laughing. "Quinn, I'll help you walk. Let's go."

Ignoring Quinn's triumphant grin, the nurse passes Rachel without another comment and holds the door open for Mandy and Quinn to hobble through, Rachel bringing up the rear with a single crutch under one arm. Quinn's ears still ring from Rachel's squealing. Rachel's cast is still awkward and annoying, but her other foot and the crutch allow her to hobble around, which is definitely better than the wheelchair. Rachel even admits to yelling happily that she could walk again to the safety of her room.

"Have a nice day," the nurse bites out. "We hope you enjoyed the service and care of Lima General."

"I didn't, bitch," Quinn mumbles when the nurse is out of earshot. "Lima General sucks."

Mandy's laughter almost makes Quinn fall on her face, and Rachel almost trips over her crutch from giggling.

"I think you should have your own show," Mandy says brightly. "All the shit you say."

"Yeah. Totally, great idea, sis," Quinn broods sarcastically. "Episode One: How to Be a Cheater."

The twitch of Quinn's lips are the only betrayal of her amusement, and Rachel grins.

"Episode Two: How to Trick Idiot Boyfriend," the brunette adds.

"Episode Three: How to Help in a Pot Cupcakes Bake Sale with Fellow Cheater."

"Episode Four: How to...darn it," Rachel grumbles. "This is hard."

"How about the episode where I punch you both in the face for being so annoying?" Mandy voices, smiling into the silence. "That's right. That would be a great episode."

"Loser," Quinn mumbles. "At least I don't watch SoapNet."

"I'm not the loser who harassed a nurse," Mandy concludes. "Just saying."

"Kanye shrug," Rachel pipes up, as all three burst into laughter for the rest of the ride home.

* * *

Quinn returns to McKinley after adamant urging from Judy, and another couple days of solid relaxation. Rachel's a constant presence at her house, keeping Judy entertained with her endless knowledge of musicals. Mandy's immersed in textbooks and research about state schools that offer psychology for her to take, and the search for a job. Rachel stays over sometimes, which helps Quinn improve, but the days she isn't causes two steps backwards. Quinn wonders how long exactly she can keep up the act of feeling better—it's not like Rachel can always come over, and she'll have to find a suitable and safe alternative to staying awake to avoid nightmares.

Her nightmares vary; Jacob leading an army of savage, screaming clones to kill her, various ways the boy can hurt the members of glee club, getting decapitated by a guillotine for being a terrible queen, and lastly, seeing an oblivious blonde girl in the line of fire as Jacob bears down on her child.

Quinn dresses in jeans and a T-shirt, stowing her uniform in her duffel bag. Mandy waves distractedly from her room, glasses perched on her nose as she reads, and Judy's already gone to work. Quinn grabs the meticulously packed lunch her mother insisted on making the night before, and dutifully heads to school.

Rachel meets her in the parking lot, and her eyes widen at Quinn's attire.

"You still look tired," the brunette says instead, frowning.

"Work in progress," Quinn answers. "Anyway," she continues, gesturing to her clothes, "this is my mom's idea."

"Ms. Sylvester won't be happy," Rachel warns.

"She'll understand," Quinn counters. "I can't be a reliable Head Cheerio right now."

"That's true," Rachel says doubtfully.

"I have to get better," Quinn reminds her as they walk to Rachel's locker. "When I'm better, she might let me back on the squad. She did this year, after a little bribery."

Rachel snickers, and a group of AV geeks walk by, whispering at Quinn's lack of red polyester.

Lauren Zizes only raises an eyebrow, but says nothing, and Quinn doesn't meet her eyes.

"Rachel, Quinn," Tina exclaims brightly, appearing with Mike, "you're back...and no uniform? You're quitting?"

"Temporarily," Quinn replies.

"It'll be good for you to have a break," Mike affirms sympathetically, and Quinn smiles at him.

"I have to break the news to Sylvester, I'll see you all later," Quinn remarks with a small sigh, squeezing Rachel's hand once in farewell and departing down the corridor, gaining curious looks from all sides, which she pointedly ignores and continues to Sue Sylvester's office.

"She doesn't need that uniform to turn heads," Rachel notes, as Mike kindly carries her books for her.

Tina smiles. "She always turns heads."

"And she always will," Mike surmises, and the three share an amused laugh.

* * *

A knock interrupts Sue Sylvester's paperwork, and Becky leaps up to answer it.

"Hey, Becky, may I come in?"

"Coach," Becky turns, "it's Quinn Fabray."

"Let her in," Sue says without looking up. Becky opens the door for Quinn to enter, and promptly closes it behind her, standing guard outside with her arms crossed. Quinn successfully manages not to laugh at Becky's achievement as Sue's best assistant. Sue lifts her gaze from her papers, gesturing for Quinn to sit.

"Q."

"Coach."

"Still wandering around like a vampire?"

Quinn allows herself a small laugh. "No, Coach."

"I see you aren't wearing your uniform. I sincerely hope you aren't pregnant again."

Sue reflexively eyes Quinn's stomach, while Quinn shakes her head.

"No. But my mother thinks I should take a break from the squad for awhile."

"I see."

Quinn shifts in her seat, and her eyes turn pleading. "Can I come back to the squad eventually?"

Sue toys with her reading glasses, and after a few moments, simply says: "Fine."

"Seriously?" Quinn stammers. "No blackmail, no bribery, nothing?"

"No. You're my best Cheerio, Fabray. Besides Brittany, you're the best dancer, and besides Santana, the best enforcer of my hierarchy system. Those two are good in their own talents, but you combine the two as Head Cheerio. I'll let Santana take the reins until you're ready."

"Thank you, Ms. Sylvester."

"Although," Sue stresses, "this won't stop the pregnancy remarks, or the attempts to destroy glee club. I will also mock Schuester's hairstyle, and nervous Edna."

"Emma," Quinn corrects automatically. "Ms. Pillsbury, I mean."

"You've already lost my attention a few seconds back. Get better. Rejoin the squad. But now, you can do me a favor and get out of my office."

Quinn leaves smiling, still surprised a long time after at a rare display of Sue Sylvester's mercy, and believes this will be a good day.

(It won't. Not even close.)

* * *

Lauren Zizes is sitting at her lunch table, listening to two of her friends squabble over which comics are better—DC or Marvel, it's an important issue, you know—when her phone vibrates. Extracting it from her pocket, Lauren scrolls to the new email from a familiar contact, and freezes.

_Jacob Ben Israel._

Knowing that this moment is exactly like the movie _Pulse_, she opens the email cautiously.

It's an audio attachment, and Lauren brings it to her ear, her breath nervously catching in her throat. Before she can press play, similar exclamations of shock and terror echo across the cafeteria, and the audio message plays at different intervals, but all repeat the same fifteen minutes, replicating the last minutes of Jacob's life in the library. Lauren can barely think straight, she's so shocked. The entire room is silent, listening to their own phones play the message sent directly from Jacob's blog.

No one can utter anything aloud. It's too fresh, too frightening. How on earth did it send with the writer currently six feet under?

Rachel Berry is practically paralyzed with pure panic, her eyes unseeing and glazed over, her mouth forming silent, incomprehensible words. Puck, Santana, Brittany, Kurt, Mercedes, Tina, Artie, Sam, Mike, and Finn all try desperately to prompt another reaction, some sort of verbal indication that's she okay, that she's not catatonic.

(They fail.)

The doors opening cause the cafeteria to flinch, and Quinn Fabray enters, late to lunch. Her bright expression fades as dozens of eyes swivel to stare at her, unable to speak.

Mercedes walks over slowly, carefully, and Quinn looks to her curiously.

Mercedes looks very close to tears of sympathy and fear of Quinn's reaction, and silently hands her phone over.

Quinn examines it, and at Mercedes's nod, presses play to the audio message.

_"You're the reason I chose to do this."_

_"Excuse me?"_

_"You run McKinley with an iron fist, Quinn! Not even Sylvester or Figgins has as much of an influence as you do. You let the football players and Cheerios slushie anyone they please and don't say a single thing about it. I'm one of the many who are bullied every day in this fucking school and no one bothers to care! You don't care about anyone!"_

Quinn doesn't bother to listen to the whole thing as her skin drains of color and her eyes dull to dim hazel tunnels, shallow and empty. Almost tentatively, she places the phone in Mercedes's hand, pressing it hard into the diva's palm. Mercedes doesn't wince once, and holds Quinn's gaze, which has become eerily blank.

The room stares, everyone holding their breath. What will she do? Scream? Faint? Beg for forgiveness? Smash every phone to bits?

"Quinn," Mercedes breathes into the silence, her voice no higher than a whisper.

This seems to rouse Quinn from her stupor, who blinks like a dazed child.

"Quinn," Mercedes tries again, and Quinn opens her mouth—say something, Mercedes silently begs. Say something, please. Don't shut us out. Don't do something drastic. Please, don't go back into the awful pit of nothingness, just open your mouth and say _something_—but the blonde can't seem to find coherent words to articulate. Rachel's eyes don't waver from the ex-cheerleader, and Puck is half standing from his chair, ready to grab Rachel to sling over his shoulder and get Quinn.

Quinn steps away, slowly, from Mercedes, and inhales a shuddering breath. Before anyone can move, Quinn bolts from the cafeteria, and disappears.


	9. Chapter 9

**Couldn't resist, mates. In the iconic words of Captain Jack Sparrow from Pirates of the Caribbean, I present chapter nine to you readers. It explains a few points, and contains something suspiciously related to the Golden Globe aftershow yelling of Lea Michele to Dianna Agron, which were: "Drink it!"**

**So, yeah, your surprise treat for the chapter is my own interpretation of drunk!Quinn. Hope you enjoy, because Faberry practically wrote this angst themselves. I'd also like to suggest reading stories by Cheeseburger Aspiration, and thank you to both RedMagic and thelastpen for Live Journal advice.**

**Your reviews were amazing, by the way. They always make a sucky day at school a little easier to handle. And I don't own _Glee, _unfortunately for _moi._**

**This could be the second to last chapter. The next could be the final, but I'm not exactly sure about an epilogue. Whateverrr.**

**Enjoy!**

**

* * *

**

She won't say she's surprised. Honestly, maybe a little miffed, but no, not surprised.

Jacob did say he would haunt her conscious forever. Promised to. She just didn't expect it to be so tangible and obvious. A message from the grave, very original for Lima's dramatics. Granted, Quinn was the former queen of McKinley and the top billing as Lima's current star for soap opera-ish tendencies, but she digresses. Jacob once again screwed her over. First her eyes, now her ears. She still sees it. The splatter of blood like on crime shows, the ugly movement of skin and cartilage in a sickening implosion.

Now she has to hear the other things. From every side. Saved in phone memory chips to listen at leisure.

What's next? A kidney shot? An inoperable tumor caused by opening Jacob's locker after inhaling toxic fumes? A heart attack, maybe?

One minute she was standing in the cafeteria, and the next, sprinting down the hallway like she's first place in the Olympics. Quinn silently applauds her brain's quirky ability to send her into microsleeps. Really, she didn't even notice her escape until she nearly slammed headfirst into a row of lockers. It's like, blink, and she's gone.

Quinn finds the library to be empty, what a relief, and sits on the floor, just out of sight.

Several feet away lies the awful rug with the bloodstain underneath. How fitting, she muses. Here used to be hell, now it's an escape. Kind of.

Pulling her legs to her chest, she wraps her arms tightly around them and lowers her head to rest on her knees, and sighs slowly. She just wants peace, is that so much to ask? It's as if everyone enrolled in school seems to find a reason to stare at her. Wow, she's the hot captain of the Cheerios. Check that out, she's the pregnant leader of the Chastity Club. See, now, she's the pregnant cheater with the quarterback's best friend. Wow, she's back in action as HBIC. Look over there, there's the blonde cheerleader who saw JewFro shoot himself. And lastly, there's the broken loser who's darkest secrets have a funny way of getting exposed around here. Glad we're not her, right?

Fate is a fickle, bitter, evil, pathetic, savage, ruthless, whiny, terrible bitch, Quinn thinks.

* * *

Puck's already helping Rachel stand up as whispers spread across the room, breaking the harsh silence and causing groups to converse in closely knit circles, throwing glances at the glee club table and fervent stares. The epicenter of it all—the ones who know Quinn best, who understand her motive to simply run away and not yell.

The lunch ladies gossip loudly, wondering how they managed to find at the craziest school in the continental US.

"We have to find her," Puck urges. The club moves from their seats, but Rachel speaks at last.

"No. Just us. Too many is overwhelming," she orders firmly, eyes flashing, and no one argues with her.

"Let's go, Rach."

They depart through the double doors, and the hallways are silent. Teachers are crammed into the lounge for another regular meeting about keeping the budget while the students eat lunch, oblivious to the drama and pandaemonium occurring right under their noses. Puck rolls his eyes, exasperated. For people who claim to understand children, trained to sympathize and comfort them whenever necessary (teach them too, whatever), they sure make one hell of a job of it.

"We'll split up from here," Rachel says.

"You can't walk quickly enough," Puck insists.

"Doesn't matter," Rachel snaps and Puck's surprised by both her lack of paragraph lengthened answers and the spine-tingling iciness of her tone, quite uncommon to Rachel's normally fiery rage. The mohawked boy nods, turning down an adjacent hallway and is lost from her sight to search for the missing blonde.

Gripping her crutch tighter to steady herself, Rachel ponders where Quinn would go.

Ditching is an option, though she'll check the parking lot last. The locker room is out, because it was Quinn's idea to quit the squad, so there's not point to go in there.

Classrooms are to be ignored—the last thing Quinn will be into at the moment is learning.

Get into _her_ head, Rachel thinks furiously. _Where_ would Quinn pick to hide?

The answer floats uncertainly from the back of her mind, only to gain clarity as it appears.

The library—Quinn's hurt and angry and there isn't anywhere else in McKinley where the blonde can think about this, Rachel supposes, heading in the direction of the elevators. Aside from her home and the choir room, which Quinn wouldn't pick because the group would convene there, Rachel hopes she's finally understanding Quinn and that this isn't just a shot in the dark. Bad euphemism, the brunette chides her brain, but hobbles along until she reaches the doors.

Pushing the door open with her shoulder, Rachel manages to get inside and air whooshes behind her as the doors shut, and silence weighs down on her so oppressively, _heavily_, it's like the shooting day all over again. The librarian is out to lunch again—really, when was this woman around, do your damn job—but Rachel can feel it deep in her heart as if it's her own beating somewhere; Quinn's in here, hiding.

Rachel believes Quinn is one of the strongest people she knows. Quinn isn't scared. She's brave, completely the opposite of coward. Quinn forces herself to endure the days, forces herself to live, to keep going with her head up high (though lately she did have that drug induced 'keep going' attitude and the fact that she doesn't hold her head like a queen anymore, more like a lowly peasant) and just being normal. Quinn tries with Herculeanean effort to stay grounded, and mostly, it works for her.

Her crutch and uninjured foot make noise, and she hears a faint sigh of acknowledgement. Jackpot.

When she reaches the spot where Quinn is sitting, the blonde simply examines the floor.

"You can't take this lying down, Quinn," the brunette says.

"I'm not lying down, clearly. I'm _sitting_ down."

Her voice is so dead and chilling, it creates goosebumps on Rachel's skin. From what she can see of Quinn's downcast eyes, they are shallow pools. Quinn's cut off from herself—her emotions are buried so deep down, they can't be expressed in her eyes anymore. If anything, she's a reanimated corpse, a shell of the once fiercely proud individual who strutted down the hallway with a devious smirk on her lips and the power of peer pressure in her hands. Now, she's unworthy to compare to that.

"You know what I mean."

"Afraid I don't, Rach. Sorry."

(The endearment is not pleasant. It's bitter and tired. It resembles an insult, at best, close to the snarky rudeness from all of freshmen to early sophomore year.)

"Don't shut me out. Please," Rachel begs.

"I'm not shutting anyone out," Quinn simpers, her voice morphing into a controlled sneer.

"You are," Rachel insists, struggling not to burst into tears. "You're closed off."

Quinn unsteadily heaves herself to her feet, and shrugs, walking slowly out of the library, but slow enough for Rachel to follow, probably to prove a point. The blonde looks almost bored, like a robot (Quinnbot?), and Rachel hurries to keep up as they round the corner to the front hall, where the parking lot is like a promised land, an escape for Quinn to use. Quinn stops with the front doors only five feet away, and turns back to Rachel, as if deciding something.

"Did you mean it?"

Rachel tilts her head to side, confused, and still choked up. It was her job, her mission to help Quinn rebuild. She volunteered, damn it! She vowed to save Quinn from herself and she's failed miserably. Quinn is still cold, infuriated, and only warms up to Rachel when the moon is tinted blue and pigs have taken flight across the sky.

(Which doesn't happen, ever. The flying pig thing. Stupid brain, Rachel thinks.)

Quinn's staring at her expectantly, so she coughs.

"Did you mean it?" Quinn repeats.

"Mean what?"

"That they don't mean anything."

"What?"

"When you kiss me, does it mean anything?"

Rachel's planned words die in her throat. This is the topic Quinn decides to breach upon? Those kisses that Rachel tactfully avoids thinking about in favor of keeping a stable friendship with Quinn and helping (although failing) to move on from Jacob's machinations. She hasn't really rationalized them properly. She was right when talking to Sam, she did have to think about them closer, but hasn't had the time to. Rachel can't tell if she's friends with Quinn or more than that. Or what she wants.

Honestly, it's really, really confusing. Her head's mixed up. That's not supposed to happen. Rachel Barbra Berry needs to have a focused mind, not one full of uncertainties and hopes and longings for someone who aggravates her and makes her happy at the same time and someone who gets her. Shouldn't she be thinking of Finn, or maybe Puck? Not the silent blonde with stormy eyes that she wants to fill with emotion, anything to fix her because damn it to hell, she knows she can fix her. She can.

"I don't know," the diva answers truthfully.

Quinn's eyes tighten infinitesimally and suddenly, they burn brightly with anger, frustration, and the sight of them being so alive and energetic distracts Rachel from the fact that she was suddenly backed slightly painfully against a locker, Quinn Fabray inches from her face, teeth bared in an irate, resentful grimace.

"You're lying," Quinn breathes. The air seems to crackle with electricity, sizzling with the ferocity of Quinn's ire.

"W-what d-d'you mean?" Rachel squeaks.

"You've kissed me three times," Quinn barks out, hands planted flat on the lockers on either side of Rachel's head. Too close, Rachel thinks. Too close. Too close.

"Y-yes, that's correct."

"And you tell me," Quinn continues dangerously, and Rachel can't help but flinch in trepidation and something else, "that you don't know what you feel. You don't _know_."

"I don't, Quinn. It's not that simple. Shouldn't we talk about J—"

"No!" Quinn growls, pushing off the lockers and striding out of the front doors. Rachel hastens to catch up to her, and Quinn whirls around to see Rachel outside behind her, looking upset and desperate, desperate for a breakthrough, a clue, some headway to keep going, to keep pushing for answers. (She get something. Not much though.)

"Why are so angry? What did I do?" Rachel pleads. "Was it the recording? I didn't know that would happen, I swear—no one did! No one's judging you, Quinn! Please just talk to me! I thought we were okay!"

"It's not okay, Rachel. I'm not okay," Quinn bites out. "I can't just sit back and let you kiss me whenever you want to. It's not fair. You can't do that whenever you please."

"I'm not talking about that," Rachel insists. "You're missing the point."

"You're missing my point," Quinn retorts furiously. "I want them to mean something. Don't you get it? I want you to kiss me and it to mean something! Is that so difficult to understand?"

"You need to focus on your issues with Jacob, not me," Rachel says forcefully, looking like she wanted to scream or sob. "The two of us is another matter entirely and can be discussed when you've explained your pent up emotions to me or a therapist. You're running away again, Quinn. Instead of dealing with the present problem at hand, you choose an easy route—you're more at peace about Beth now, and yet you talk about her frequently to avoid talking about this. The shooting _happened_, Quinn. You can't ignore it, no matter how hard you try. You can't push me away either. Everyone else except my father and I may have stopped, but we won't until you fess up."

"I don't care about the shooting," Quinn snarls. "I care about you."

"If you can't discuss the shooting, I can't discuss what we are," Rachel snaps. "Besides, you make it sound like a curse, and frankly, you're going in circles."

"Whatever," Quinn says dismissively with a wave of her hand, and walks to her car.

"I used to think you weren't a coward until about five minutes ago!" Rachel yells. "But you are! You'll be alone if you keep doing this, Quinn!"

Quinn refuses to look back.

* * *

Rachel sits on the bench outside, deciding not to return to class. Who cares, she thinks.

"Hey."

Her exhausted eyes find David Karofsky, hands shoved in his pockets, eyeing her apprehensively.

"David."

"Berry."

"Is there something you needed? I merely ask that because I'm really not in the mood right to change my clothes, even though the slushies have ceased as of late."

"I heard you and Quinn talking," the boy says, sitting down uninvited beside her.

"Lovely. Have fun spreading that around, will you?"

"I wouldn't spread it around," Karofsky mumbles. "It's like, private stuff. Confidential."

"Have you hit your head recently?"

"No, why?"

"You're acting extraordinarily out of character," Rachel informs him coolly.

"Oh. Well, I just wanted to talk to Quinn about something," Karofsky admits, scratching his ear.

"As you must've seen, she stormed off to her car," the diva huffs.

"Taken a leaf outta your book," Karofsky observes.

"So it would seem," Rachel acquiesces.

Outcast and bully sit in companionable silence, and Karofsky sighs.

"Anyway, I was planning on finding Quinn. I'll see you later, I guess."

Rachel watches, nonplussed, as Karofsky ambles into the parking lot in search of the blonde.

What was _he_ up to?

* * *

Quinn's brooding in her car when she hears a tap of knuckles on her window.

Dave Karofsky stands outside, looking at her with slightly unhappy eyes.

"Hey, Quinn."

"Karofsky. What are you doing here?"

"Actually, I was looking for you," the jock offers quietly. "I wanted to talk."

"Did Rachel send you?"

"No. And I wouldn't be talking about you, I'd be talking about me," he says hastily. "You don't need to be mad at me like Berry. I heard a bit of your conversation—"

"Interesting story to run," Quinn interrupts. "Good luck ruining my reputation even more."

"I don't do that stuff anymore," Karofsky sighs. "I just want to talk. And I won't tell anyone about what I heard or saw. It's your business. I was just walking by."

Quinn raises an eyebrow.

"Can I sit in there with you?"

Quinn can't find it in her to say no, so she unlocks the door and allows Karofsky to sit in the passenger seat.

Watching him closely, he seems...upset. Lost, even. He's lacking his usual bravado and maliciousness—it seems to have fizzled out, just gone, like having a limb amputated. She doesn't know what to make of it, so she stays silent and so does he, both staring with glazed eyes out the windows, immersed in their own thoughts.

"Why do you want to talk to me, Karofsky?"

"We're in the same boat," the hockey player admits. "Messed up."

"True."

"Before I keep going, can we talk in private?"

"We're already in my car."

"That won't last," Karofsky points out. He gestures to the trio of Rachel, Santana, and Puck, huddled near the school entrance, deep in conversation. "They'll find you soon."

"We can go to my house," Quinn suggests tiredly. "Just promise this isn't a prank."

"It's not," Karofsky assures her earnestly. "I'm just as tired as you are. I just wanna get out of here."

"Sounds like a good idea," she murmurs, and starts the engine.

Careful to avoid being seen, the blonde drives herself and the boy all the way back to the Fabray house, feeling like she's left a piece of herself behind when she yelled at Rachel. She wasn't being fair, that is true. Rachel's only trying to help and Quinn wouldn't let her, instead demanding they talk about Quinn's strange, inconsequential feelings and yes, the truth she admires Rachel more than a friend should. Was that so hard to understand? It kind of slapped her in the face recently and now she doesn't want to look at Rachel without begging for forgiveness, asking for a relationship, or just leaving because it's too hard to think about and be around the petite brunette.

She doesn't deserve Rachel. Not in this lifetime anyway. But that doesn't mean anyone who's anyone doesn't want the only thing that seems out of reach, unattainable, the one thing you can't have. She can't have Rachel. It isn't fair because she was horrible to the girl, and saved her life, sort of, building a sometimes nice but often tense friendship that always had something simmering underneath because of those aggravating feelings that she developed for the diva since early summer.

Rachel's just trying to fix her. That doesn't mean she wants a relationship. She's isn't obligated to offer one. It's completely sickening to Quinn's stomach that she nearly lost it in the hallway, angry at Rachel for making her feel this way and angry at herself for allowing such such a slip in her composure, almost resulting in hurting Rachel.

"Here we are," she sighs, pulling into her driveway.

Karofsky nods. "It's nice."

"Yeah."

Karofsky's silent until Quinn offers: "Do you want to come inside?"

"If that's okay."

He's being somewhat polite, and it'a a little unsettling. They wander into her kitchen.

Quinn sits, Karofsky sits.

"Would you mind calling me Dave?" The boy asks, looking slightly sad. "I hear Karofsky every single day and sometimes I just want to hear my own name once and awhile."

"Okay," Quinn says, surprised. "Dave it is, then."

Dave folds his hands on the table, and Quinn can practically see the wheels turning in his head.

"Do you like Berry?"

Quinn pauses before answering an affirmative, and finds herself baring a bit of her soul to a once obedient yet annoying aggressor. The truth feels nice. Nice to admit it to someone who's distant and separated, who apparently isn't in the mood to judge or tell anyone else. He just seems muted. "Yeah. I don't really know how it happened...maybe it was leftover pregnancy hormones or something. She just...popped into my head and I couldn't stop thinking about her all summer. When school hit, I didn't know how to act so I just listened and tried to be nicer. Then the...the shooting happened and I was suddenly all protective, and the fact that she's kissed me—"

Dave holds up three fingers, looking apologetic for the accidental eavesdropping. "Three times."

"Yes. She claimed to do it to make me feel better. It sort of worked, but brought on feelings and thoughts about her that I thought would never happen with someone who's a girl, let alone Rachel Berry."

Dave nods understandingly. "Is it hard?"

"Yeah," Quinn admits. "Confusing. I don't know if I'm straight or...This is actually the first time I've really looked at it that way. It's like, only her, that's it. I don't think about anyone else. I don't want to."

"How do you deal with it?"

"I don't," Quinn says honestly. "I run."

Dave nods again, and inhales a shuddering, frightened breath. "I've run too."

Quinn tilts her head to the side, confused. "How?"

His hands shake uncontrollably, and he looks like he's about to faint. "I think...I mean, I'm not sure, but it really looks that way...that I might possibly be, you know...gay."

Dave looks torn between being upset with himself or being relieved at saying it aloud.

"I think I am," he articulates. "I think I'm gay, Quinn."

"That's why you wanted to talk to me," the blonde guesses. "You wanted to know how the Head Cheerio deals before you could say it aloud in front of someone else."

"Yeah."

"I hope I didn't disappoint you," she says. "I'm honored that you chose me to tell, but I haven't figured out how to properly deal with my own confusion."

"I expected as much," Dave sighs. "It's not like we can change it or hide it."

"We run from it," Quinn amends. "That's not good either."

"No, it isn't."

Both lapse into sad, wistful silence, and Quinn's suddenly struck with a thought.

"Where's Azimio lately?"

Dave promptly looks repentant and miserable, and she understands immediately.

"He was one of the twenty-one, wasn't he? I hadn't noticed, I'm sorry."

"Yeah. It's been...hard, not having my best friend around," the jock admits. "I miss him."

Quinn thinks up another question.

"Why have you stopping bullying?"

"You're kind of an example to me," Dave says, embarrassed. His face is flushed, like the words spill out of his mouth against his will. "You yelled at me that time for almost shutting Berry in a port-o-potty and it was like a total wake up call. Why would you want to protect someone you used to torture? And if you could, why couldn't I?"

"That makes sense."

"It's not enough," Dave adds mournfully. "I want to apologize to everyone I hurt, but I can't find the courage."

"Hopefully we both can someday," Quinn says, and Dave nods.

When the silence has stretched, this time, a little more easily, Dave speaks up.

"Thanks for listening, but I should head home."

"Not back to school?" She questions.

"Nah. I need some space from it," the boy says.

He's halfway out the door to walk home—clear his head, Dave had said with an almost content sigh—when Quinn calls him.

"Dave?"

"Yeah?"

She fidgets with the hem of her shirt and Karofsky waits patiently.

"Do you ever...blame yourself? For what happened with Jacob?"

"Yes," Karofsky answers, his eyes full of honesty. "All the time. All day, all night."

"Feel free to join the confused, unhappy, guilty boat of misery," Quinn smiles sadly. "I do too."

"I'm the captain, Fabray," the jock jokes weakly. "See you."

When Quinn's been standing in the kitchen for at least a half an hour, immobile, she blinks and wanders distractedly to the dining room, in the mood for something relaxing. Music won't do it. Sleeping won't either, nor will watching television. Finding the hideaway key for the taboo cabinet, she unlocks it and peers inside at the dusty bottles, and takes one, hurrying upstairs to her room like a fugitive. At least Puck won't be around this time, that's a relief.

(It would later prove to be a bad/good idea. Not harmfully, just emotionally.)

* * *

When Judy arrives home, she finds Mandy reading fitfully by the front door, as if she's waiting for something.

"Hi, sweetie. What's up?"

"What?" Mandy jumps, startled, before fixing a tight grin on her face. "Oh, nothing."

Judy stops, hearing the hitch in her daughter's tone, a weakness long exposed since the girl was young, and turns around to see Mandy reading a newspaper, upside down.

"Amanda Olivia Fabray," Judy remarks coolly, seeing Mandy wince reflexively. "What's going on?"

"Huh?" Mandy squeaks. "Nothing, Mom."

"Don't lie to me, Amanda."

"It's not a big deal," Mandy says nervously, blocking the stairs. "Not really."

Judy takes a step closer, Mandy takes one back. They repeat the dance twice.

"Don't make me ask again," Judy warns. "What's going on?"

"There was an incident at school," Mandy rushes, as Judy scurries up the stairs, her daughter at her heels, then blocks Quinn's bedroom door. "But it's not anything bad."

"Really? Then why are you hiding in front of Quinn's door?"

"Just let me explain first," Mandy protests valiantly. "Then you can go in."

Inside, Quinn calls in a whine: "_Mandyyy_, I said no visitorrrrs!"

Judy recognizes the timbre of Quinn's voice and oddly drawn out syllables, and knows instantly what Quinn's doing.

"Move."

"Mom, just promise not to freak—"

"_Move_."

Mandy shuffles sideways obediently, regretfully, and Judy pushes the door open.

Quinn's sitting cross-legged on the floor in the dark, and Judy detects the distinct odor of alcohol rise in the air. She's not dependent on drinking it anymore, a habit long kicked but not forgotten, but unfortunately, it seems have to deferred to Quinn in terms of coping with something. Judy remembers vividly the days she used to drink and do nothing else—with Russell not assisting at all, he joined in as well—and a silent Mandy keeping little Quinn occupied. She's ashamed of that, unconsciously allowing her eldest to mother her youngest, and she finds even more resolve than ever to be better. She has to be. She loves her children, and it's time to really be a parent.

"Quinn," she fumes. "_Why_ are you _drinking_?"

"Feelin' sad," Quinn slurs delightedly, quite the contrary to her statement. "Needed to relax and let _looose_!"

"Mom," Mandy voices quietly, urgency in her eyes. "It's not that bad."

"It's not? My daughter resorted to drinking underage to feel better," Judy snaps. "That's two strikes against her already. Quinn keeps making the same mistakes, Mandy. She's avoiding her problems by doing something else and burying her head in the sand. And the fact that she's learned that 'feeling better' involves alcohol is deplorable—it's my fault, I do see that. I set a bad example in the past. But she needs to realize," the oldest blonde woman says pointedly, "that she'll be punished immediately."

"You d-do that, Mo-o-om," Quinn singsongs. "Slap on the chains!"

"Freak," Mandy mutters, shaking her head.

"I'm not joking, Quinn. You're in huge trouble, young lady."

"Aye, aye, captain," Quinn giggles, her eyes dancing with brightness caused by the drinks and humor. "Wait, no! You're not the captain. Dave is. Oh, hold on! You can be the queen—no, no, no, wait! You can be the commodore! Commodore Judy of the Seven Seas! Avast, ye landlubber!"

Mandy tries to fight the amused smirk from growing at the sight of Quinn's drunken babbling, but fails, and Judy sighs.

"Who's Dave?" Mandy wonders with a small laugh.

"Don't encourage her," Judy warns.

"Dave is my new best friend _thaat's_ a boy," Quinn squeals. "But Mom!" She yells, waving. "Don't worry, Dave is wicked cool! He won't get me pregnant—he's capital G gay!"

"I can't believe this," Judy says, slapping a hand to her forehead.

"Let her sober up, sleep it off, and punish when's she hungover," Mandy comments. "That's the worse feeling. You feel awful, look awful, and then you're in big trouble too."

"I plan to."

"Why are you two yelling?" Quinn shouts suddenly, smacking her hands to her ears. "Stop hurting my ears, GOD!"

"At least we know she's a happy drunk," Mandy remarks helpfully.

"Shut up, Mandy," Quinn grumbles, exasperated. "You're _sooo_ drunk. Jesus."

"You're the drunk, loser."

"I am not a loser!" Quinn huffs. "You're the loser, you big dumb loser."

Judy sits down on Quinn's bed, and Mandy leans in the doorframe.

"Might as well stick with her until she's sober," Mandy suggests.

"We'll wait all night if I have to," Judy bites out grimly. "What was she drinking?"

Mandy turns pink, avoiding the pressure of her mother's angry gaze.

"Mandy."

Silence.

"Amanda."

"Scotch," Mandy mumbles. "Dad's older ones."

"How much did she drink?"

Mandy murmurs something incomprehensible, while Quinn swats at imaginary flies.

"Not flies," Quinn rolls her eyes when asked by her mother. "Nargles. Get it right."

"What's a nargle?" Judy asks.

Quinn bursts into laughter. Mandy snickers.

"Well, what are they?" Judy demands.

"I don't know," Quinn scowls, searching for the bottle, which fortunately has disappeared from her sight and clutches. "Luna Lovegood sees them all the time!"

"Who's Luna Lovegood?" Judy inquires impatiently. "I don't understand."

"I'll explain it to you later, Mom," Mandy grins, shaking her head.

"Hey," Quinn protests. "She's my mom, you poser. Get out of here."

"Oh my God," Mandy exclaims mockingly. "Sorry, yeah. I'm your new neighbor. Cindy."

"Nice to meet you," Quinn trills, as expected. "I'm Quinn Fabray...I think?"

"No, you're name is Abraham Lincoln," Mandy offers helpfully. "The president."

"Cool. I get a top hat," Quinn burps noisily. "Four score and something, something, something...years ago, I—"

Judy rolls her eyes.

* * *

After a long, grueling hour of listening to nonsense, Quinn hasn't sobered up a bit and keeps singing (off key, unfortunately) to a terrible rendition of Bruno Mars's song, _Just the Way You Are._ Mandy tries desperately not to laugh, while Judy complies a silent list of ways Quinn could repay this mishap. Chores for three months? No, four, maybe. Cleaning duty, laundry duty, cleaning Judy's car and her own, and cooking would be a start. Then therapy with Leroy Berry, if Judy could actually persuade Quinn first.

"Hey! Mom!" Quinn bellows suddenly. "Mom!"

"What, Quinnie?"

"We're in the same club," Quinn insists dazedly. "The Bad Mom's Club."

"Quinn, don't," Mandy warns as Judy tries to remain impassive.

"We're both really, really bad mothers," Quinn continues on obliviously. "Shelby too!"

Mandy and Judy glance at each other. "Shelby?" Mandy offers.

"Yeah," Quinn scoffs. "She's like, the worst mother ever with a capital WM."

"But she adopted Beth," Judy says uncertainly. "How is that bad?"

"She left _Raaay-cheel_ all _aloooone_," Quinn drags out. "Last year...near Regionals. Jesse St. Dickface tried to swoop in and take _my_ Rachel and then bam! Shelby was like, right there, out of nowhere! And they talked and talked and wham! Suddenly Shelby doesn't want her anymore. Rachel was so sad. And then Jesse egged her with dead chicken babies and Vocal Masturbation funkified us and we lost Regionals. And then I had a baby—did you guys know that? I don't remember telling you..."

Mandy rolls her eyes, frustrated, while Judy wilts into her seat unhappily.

"Shelby and Rachel have made amends," Judy says.

"Yeah, yeah," Quinn mumbles, waving dismissively at no one in particular. "Who knows how long that'll last. Rachel would be upset and then sing a sad song during glee."

"Wait a second," Mandy yelps, picking Quinn's speech apart. "'My Rachel'? Where did that come from?"

"This year, I think," Quinn recalls hazily. "I dunno. My head's all wonky-tonky right now, sorry."

"Maybe Dad dropped you as a baby," Mandy muses, and Judy glares at her.

"Nah, I think it was the big bullet noise," Quinn hiccups. "You know, boom? Kablam? Or Jacob, maybe. He said a lot of mean things...hey, my eyes are foggy, is that normal, Mandy and Mom?"

"Totally normal," Mandy interjects.

"Okay, good. _Anywhoo_, I was all like, 'hey, back off, jerk!' and Jacob got pretty mad. Wait! That happened at school today. Somebody had the recorded tape of the shooting," Quinn flails ungracefully, pulling her laptop across the floor so the plastic screeches loudly, scratching the hardwood—Mandy and Judy wince—and Quinn fumbles through the Internet for a few seconds, and brings up Jacob's abandoned blog, still up on the host website with his previous entires and scandals for all to see.

"It's a real shocker," Quinn whispers conspiratorially. "I think I could win an award for being so brave."

She presses play and manages to happily remain in her drunken haze, unaffected by the horror playing, while her sister and mother turn slightly green in the face with repulsion and regret. No wonder Quinn's been messing around lately, Judy thinks sadly. Having to actually live that terrible experience would—_should_—allow anyone to act out and work through it their own way. The main problem is easy: Quinn's not dealing. She's dancing around it, careful not to miss a step until confronted. When questioned about her issues, she simply jumps back into the dance and ignores what she should do and instead focuses on what she wants—to be normal and safe.

"I just might throw up," Mandy admits.

"I agree. But now we know the whole story. That day, all we saw was the results. We can try and get it through her head that it isn't her fault," Judy says determinedly, while Mandy nods. "We won't stop until she's whole again. No more fooling around—she's going to therapy, even if she goes kicking and screaming. It's two against one."

"Hold on!" Quinn yelps. "What's going through my head? Not a drill, right? I don't want a botany examination!"

"That's a lobotomy, idiot," Mandy scoffs.

"Stop speaking stupid, pansy fancy French, Mandy. I take Spanish III. _Tu eres loco, puta!_"

"Good Lord," Judy sighs.

* * *

When Quinn's finally sobered up, it's close to nine o'clock. After repeated efforts to lessen the effects of the alcohol, Mandy decided bluntly to splash water on Quinn's face. With only a few mishaps ("Oh my God, I'm drowing, HELP!" and "When the heck did I get in the shower?"), Quinn is tired, sober, and completely embarrassed, sitting at the table in the kitchen with Judy's unwavering, reanimated glare fixed on her face and Mandy's taunting smirk, who sits perched on the counter.

Judy just stands, arms crossed, and Quinn silently and apologetically prays for mercy.

"I've decided."

"On?"

"What I'm feeling right now," Judy remarks stiffly. "Not angry, no, past that. I'm disappointed."

No! Quinn screams inaudibly. The disappointment card is the worst card ever! No!

"That makes sense," she mumbles instead.

"You're right, it does. I've also decided that you're grounded for five months."

"_What_?" Quinn yells.

"I'm not finished," Judy snaps. "You'll be doing all the chores and I'm taking your car away."

"I need it to get to school!"

"Take the bus."

"I don't have a job!" Quinn exclaims.

"Get one, or find a suitable alternative for getting to school," Judy shrugs, unrepentant.

Mandy's sneer is practically Cheshire-Cat worthy, it makes Quinn's blood boil.

"Before you go up to your room, no television, either," Judy comments and Quinn's skin darkens in anger, "let's talk about all the things you said while under the influence."

"No."

"You'll listen to me, Quinn," Judy barks. "I'm your mother and I said so."

Quinn sulks.

"First on the table," Mandy drawls after receiving a go-ahead nod from Judy, "who's Dave?"

"A guy at school," Quinn mutters, scuffing her sneakers on the floor tiles. "David Karofsky. He used to be a grade A asshole and always kept a steady line of slushies for all the kids at McKinley. A little while after the shooting, his personality warped totally sideways after I yelled at him for intimidating Rachel. He didn't do anything for so long, I almost forget he was in school with me until he approached me at my car. He wanted to talk in private, so we did. End of story."

Mandy and Judy tactfully avoid the other confession about Karofsky and press on.

"How was he planning to intimidate Rachel?" Judy questions curiously.

"When she was still in the wheelchair, he said he was going to put her in a port-o-potty and tip it over. It's happened to Artie a few times. I stopped him before he could."

"And you _talked_ to this bonzo?" Mandy exclaims.

"He's sorry about it," Quinn says dully, blinking sporadically. "I don't really want to be his friend but I understand what he's going through, I guess. He's trying to figure out a way to apologize to everyone who he bullied, but he's not sure how to start. Neither am I, honestly."

"You?" Judy inquires.

"In case you haven't noticed, Mom," Quinn laughs hollowly, "I used to be Head Cheerio, like the cookie cutter cliché. Last year, you couldn't breathe wrong without either me, Santana, or the other girls on the squad snapping an insult at you before you finished. I went straight to the bottom when I was pregnant, and then all the way back to the top, only to fall over again after the shooting. There's plenty of people I've hurt, friends or not. Especially Rachel."

"Why?" Mandy asks.

"She was my main target," Quinn bristles. "Nicknames, slushies, setups...the whole nine yards."

"But I thought you two were friends," Judy observes, lost.

"Well, yeah. Later in the year, when I wasn't all high-and-mighty and bitchy, when Beth sort of opened my eyes to the hurtful insults and name-calling—I can still list all of them pregnancy ones Santana came up with, by the way—Rachel still worried about the baby's health and offered friendship to _me,_ the girl who hurt her every day. I didn't deserve it but I wanted to repay her, so when this term started, I just decided to be nice to her. It wasn't that hard. I liked doing it."

"And save her life," Mandy adds.

"I suppose. If you count copying _Lost_ with wrapping a leg to stop bleeding."

"That's still important, Quinn," Judy urges. "Rachel wouldn't be here without you."

Quinn bites her lip.

Judy looks out the window, and Quinn instantly knows why she looks so insecure—because Judy's trying hard, trying to provide for the three of them and balance being a better parent, something she lacked in over seventeen years, when Russell Fabray began to enforce his poisonous influence. Mandy had admitted, once, to scarcely being able to remember a time when their mother was really happy, and not buzzed up-happy. Judy's attempt to be an impressionable mother was only underappreciated in Quinn's most secretive, malicious thoughts, and she had accidentally voiced them aloud. Mandy jerks her head in Judy's direction, scowling, until Quinn sighs.

"Mom?"

"Yes?"

"I didn't mean what I said, you know," Quinn says awkwardly. "I just—"

"No, you're right. I haven't been a suitable role model. And apparently you've inherited the alcoholism and self-deprecating feature of the Fabrays," Judy murmurs pensively.

"Mom, you're wrong, okay?" Quinn insists. "I'm the bad one. Not you. You've turned around to be the best mom I've seen around besides Carole Hudson. Honestly, I like how we're all living now. It's happy, nice, warm, and we're not silent and cold all the time. We have fun living here. You're like cool-mom chieftess, Amy Poehler."

"Yeah, it's great," Mandy interrupts, albeit lamely, and Quinn scoffs.

"Do you mean that?" Judy queries uncertainly.

"Yes," both younger blondes say firmly, and it's the last reassurance she'll need.

"Oh, that's a relief," Judy sighs. "I'm doing something right."

"You are," Mandy agrees. "Punishing Quinn for being the idiot she is was spot-on awesome sauce. Ten points to Mrs. Fabray in Gryffindor."

"Loser," Quinn grumbles.

"Idiot," Mandy counters.

"Is it true, though?" Judy cuts in, looking sympathetic. "About Beth?"

Now Mandy's looking in her direction curiously for something she hasn't done yet in her lifetime, and there's instance number one of two that Mandy will never understand as well or experience first. Quinn couldn't _keep_ her baby—any child of Mandy's will undoubtedly belong to a proud and delighted husband, and always be around for Christmas and other holidays, growing up with her real mother. Quinn was the first of both sisters to have a child, and even if it was out of order and age level, Quinn will always be more mature than Mandy will be, including the shooting incident. The younger Fabray girl will grasp the concept of fear and absolute adoration, while Mandy won't ever be able to really know those extremes. It's strange, really. Mandy should be the example for Quinn to follow after, yet Quinn's two steps ahead in terms of life ordeals.

"Yes. I can't...I think about her a lot," Quinn admits, and Judy and Mandy nod encouragingly. "I mean, I gave her up before I even thought you two would be here to support me like you have been. She's so close and far away at the same time. I told Puck I didn't want to keep her only because I wouldn't have been able to provide for her. I had to plan ahead and realized she wouldn't grow up cared for enough if I had her and when Shelby offered...it just seemed like the best deal for both of us."

"You can still see her," Mandy murmurs soothingly. "Shelby wouldn't mind."

"I don't know if I'm ready," Quinn replies quietly. "I'd probably want to take her in my arms and never leave her again."

"You don't know that, honey," Judy says, reaching down to tilt Quinn's chin up. "Once you see her, you might notice how comfortable she'll be as she gets older."

"That's not what you're really scared of," Mandy observes correctly.

"No."

"What is it?" Judy questions.

"I don't..." Quinn mumbles. "I don't want her to hate me."

"Hate you?" Mandy repeats, utterly confused. "I don't get it."

"She's implying that Beth will hate her for leaving her," Judy clarifies, a little knowingly.

"No way," Mandy protests. "You can't actually believe that!"

Quinn says nothing.

"Quinn, she won't hate you," Judy insists, brushing Quinn's hair from her eyes, which stare upward at her pleadingly for reassurance. "She'll just want to know why you did it. When Shelby decides to tell her the truth, you explain the reasons you had to let her go. Sixteen, still in high school, while trying to raise a baby? It's not possible."

"What about _16 And Pregnant_?" Mandy jokes, but falters obediently under Judy's glower.

"Ignoring that, do you understand what I'm saying?"

"Yeah," Quinn acquiesces. "Sort of."

"Better than nothing," Judy smiles.

Mandy raises an eyebrow in Quinn's direction when it's her turn to ask something.

"Explain what you think about Rachel."

"She's a singer, bound for Broadway," Quinn offers hastily. Mandy frowns.

"No, try again. You said it yourself—'your Rachel' and that you 'understand what Dave is going through'—and we want to know. Mom and I won't judge you, Quinn."

Quinn blushes crimson and Judy restrains a chuckle while Mandy grins.

"Okay, the easiest way to say it is that I have a huge gay crush on Rachel," the ex-cheerleader squeaks. "But it's only because she's kissed me first, and it's her fault, like—"

"_She_ kissed _you_?" Mandy repeats. Judy listens along, interested.

"Well, yeah. The first time was during the shooting, like, hey, she's dying so why not. The next two times because she 'assumed' I was nervous or something. She mentioned that I looked, I don't know, calmer afterwards, but honestly, I don't know her real motives. It could be—"

"An excuse?" Mandy prompts, snickering. "Maybe she has a crush on you too."

"She doesn't know yet," Quinn retorts. "I asked."

"I love high school drama," Judy pipes up, clapping. "SoapNet runs _Beverly Hills 90210_ and _One Tree Hill_. I've taken quite a liking to them. A lot of problems they have."

Her daughers stare at her in absolute derision until Quinn exclaims: "What is it with you two and SoapNet? Seriously!"

"It's entertaining," Judy says defensively.

"I like the soap operas," Mandy muses. "Someone's always in a coma or car accident."

"The lighting on those sets are terrible though," Judy adds, and Mandy nods, agreeing.

"Excuse me?" Quinn interjects, waving a hand in her own vicinity, and the other two glance at her. "Can we get back to my issue, please?"

"Which one?" Mandy quips. Judy chuckles.

"Cute. No, not really. The Rachel thing," Quinn says impatiently.

"You like her," Mandy intones, like Quinn's six. "She might like you. So, maybe run up to her all dramatically in the hallway—you know she'd love that—and give her a kiss."

Quinn scoffs and Judy tries not to start laughing, instead glancing innocently out of the window.

"Nice," Quinn jeers. "Take you that long to think it up?"

"Nope," Mandy answers proudly.

"Thought so."

"It's getting late," Judy interrupts. "Quinn, you should get some sleep."

"It's barely ten o'clock," Quinn protests indignantly.

"Oh, that's right. I'm adding a bedtime to your punishment."

"This sucks!" Quinn yells, stomping up the stairs, enunciating each word with a crash. "I don't deserve this! I'm seventeen, not seven! I won't put up with this forever!"

A door slams and Mandy turns to Judy, who both laugh at Quinn's dramatics and the relief that they did make a lot of progress today.

"Well Mom, I think they're perfect for each other."

* * *

(several hours earlier)

"That shit was creepy, bro," Puck remarks, tossing a football to Finn, who catches it expertly and tosses it back.

"It's like _Gossip Girl_," Kurt agrees, reading a magazine over Mercedes's shoulder (US Weekly).

"Or _Pretty Little Liars_," Tina adds.

"It's preposterous," Rachel grumbles. "Those were the most terrifying moments of my life and Jacob's savagery and Quinn's bravery should have remained private matters between her and I. A compelling connection we share that we'll carry on with us and a chapter I'll obviously dedicate to in my memoir."

"She was really brave," Mike comments. "I don't think any of us could have done the same."

"Hold on a moment," Rachel shouts indignantly. "_All_ of you would have let me _die_?"

"No—"

"—'course not, Berry, calm the fuck down—"

"—probably—" (Santana) "—ow, Britt, fine, that was a _joke_—"

"—never, Rach, honestly—"

"Oh, nevermind," the diva huffs. "I want to see what Artie has to say."

The boy in question hangs up his cell phone and turns to face the convened group. Rachel sits next to Sam, while Kurt sits on Sam's left with Mercedes on his left. Finn and Puck remain standing, Mike and Tina sit in the very front, Brittany and Santana are sharing the piano bench, while of course, Quinn is absent. Mr. Schue had cancelled practice upon discovering the distress of the students (Figgins had nearly had a heart attack, Ms. Pillsbury grabbed a paper bag to stop from hyperventilating, Coach Beiste recited a prayer and Sue Sylvester couldn't utter a word) and his absence, along with Brad's and the band members's gave the glee club a bit of privacy to talk.

(The superintendent had also hauled ass to school to 'investigate' but could obviously not find the culprit.)

"There wasn't a living perpetrator," Artie announces, and several gasps float from the club's mouths.

"Oh my God, it was Jacob!" Finn shrieks, almost tripping in haste to point out his opinion. "He's a ghost!"

"Finn, I haven't even explained myself yet," Artie informs him patiently, and Finn shuts up sheepishly.

"What a wuss," Puck mutters. Sam nods in agreement.

"My dad, as you all know, works at the LPD—"

"Huh?"

"Lima Police Department, Britt."

"Oh. Okay. Keep going, Artie."

"—and he did tell me that Jacob was wearing a microphone on his person on the day of the shooting," Artie continues gravely. "It recorded only about thirty minutes, but it was the five before he entered the library, and the fifteen inside it, along with the extra ten of coroners examining the body before they could locate it in his clothes. The microphone, hidden in his jacket, fed into his computer at home, until it stopped."

Artie pauses in concern at Rachel's whitening, nervous expression, but she nods pointedly for him to move on, which he does.

"When the tape stopped playing, the police had not yet found it, allowing the original mechanism to work correctly. The recorded data, sent electronically from the mic to his opened computer, streamed into a drafted email to be sent on a later date. Usually, it's referred to as an 'out of office' memo, where, say if an employee was on vacation, his or her clients will receive the same email stating that their salesman is currently absent, and would reply to their messages upon their return. Jacob utilized such an option," Artie explains, "and saved his recorded audio into an email, already attached to his blog, to be sent of all of us at a previously chosen, probably random, date."

"Wow," Tina breathes.

"That's fucked up," Santana comments. "He probably had all of our emails in that message."

"My thoughts exactly," Artie acquiesces. "It's a simple, uncomplicated tool used in emailing services, but Jacob used it to continue his psychotic wave of terror."

"So, it was Jacob," Finn says again, feeling a little vindicated for being right, for once. "Just...not him being alive to finish the job?"

"Correct."

"It sounds like his promise to keep hurting Quinn," Rachel murmurs sadly.

"If he intended that, scaring the other students was killing two birds with one stone," Artie says. "It was a horrible offense, but strategically executed to the end."

"Poor birds," Brittany mumbles. "Poor Quinn."

"How can we help you, Rach?" Finn wonders. "If you're trying to help Quinn, what can we all do to help you?"

Rachel's so surprised by his offer that she's silent for awhile, thinking it over, until a bright, delighted grin speads across her face, earning a few confused ones in return.

"I have an idea."


	10. Chapter 10

**Here's the last chapter. It feels a little rushed but I think it's okay. I hope you enjoy the final installment!**

**

* * *

**

"That's _rich_, Q."

"Come on, S," Quinn pleads. "I'm stuck here."

"Fine," Santana sighs dramatically, as if it's a careless and ridiculous waste of her time. "I'll pick you up. After I pick up Britt. And breakfast for me and her. And maybe get my car cleaned—"

"I can have someone else drive me," Quinn grounds out impatiently. "Because you're _so_ busy."

"Nah, it's okay."

"Don't make us late for class," the blonde orders, and hangs up before Santana can reply. Stealing some of Mandy's coffee on the counter when her back is turned, and wandering into the living room, Mandy finds her mug missing and curses quietly. Following her sister, she sees Quinn packing her bag, squinting agitatedly at the sunlight through the window. Mandy smirks.

"Still hungover, sis?"

"Yes. I tried to convince Mom that she had a really vivid dream but it didn't work," Quinn mutters mutinously.

"Only idiots like you would fall for that one."

"Loser."

"You need new insults, Quinn. I have plenty to work with," Mandy grins. "I can start calling you President Lincoln, or First Officer Fabray of the Seven Seas. Nice, huh?"

"Oh my God," Quinn grumbles, embarrassed. "Please let that go."

"Okay."

"What?" Quinn jerks her head so fast she nearly gets whiplash. "Really?"

"I have a condition," Mandy remarks, retrieving her coffee. "Not too bad, and I'll stop right away."

"What is it? Laundry?"

"You have to kiss Rachel," Mandy says simply.

"Mandy—"

"Take it or leave it."

"I can't just go up and kiss her," Quinn protests. "She's still mad and I don't think she even likes me. She doesn't know yet, if at all."

Mandy grins. "Not knowing means sort of. Which means you two can totally go—"

"I'm not listening to this," Quinn splutters, blocking her ears.

"Fine," Mandy yells as Quinn runs out the door, "don't forget to be honest with her, Abe!"

When Quinn's gone to wait outside for Santana, Mandy types a quick message on her phone.

_Alice has left the building. White Rabbit, you're up._

_

* * *

_

"Thanks, San," Quinn says, settling into the backseat. Santana continues to text on her phone.

"She says you're welcome," Brittany offers happily when Santana doesn't reply, well-versed in Santanaspeak, which usually means reciting politeness when Santana refuses to give any. Santana rolls her eyes, stowing her phone away. Stupid code names. Stupid Berry. Stupid Quinn.

"I should be thanking you," Santana chirps, flipping off another driver with a saccharine smile. "I'm Head Cheerio now."

"If you two don't mind me asking, where are your uniforms?"

"Uh—"

"Britt," Santana interrupts smoothly, while Brittany nods, realizing her mistake. "Remember I told you I organized a day where we could wear anything we wanted? Quinn, I decided to give the squad a much earned a day off. There isn't a game, so there's no point to be cold at school, you know?"

"Wow," Quinn answers, impressed. "That's really nice of you."

"I've turned over a new leaf," Santana lies. Brittany grins.

"So, uh, that's a nice sweatshirt, Britt," Quinn notices, confused. "Why is it so big?"

"I like it like this," Brittany says before Santana could stop her. "It's comfy."

"Oh."

Santana drives the three of them to McKinley with the radio blaring, as her phone sends a mass text.

_Latina__ Rabbit here, Alice is on the move. Berry, if you're reading this, I'm going to kill you._

_

* * *

_

"She's on the way," Rachel urges. "Noah, is Phase One ready?"

"She's ready," Puck snickers. "I gave her all the dip I had and my mom's Nyquil."

"I would scold you for that, but if it keeps her happy..."

"You can 'scold' me all you want, Rach," Puck flirts, waggling his eyebrows.

"Not now! She's coming, let's go."

Puck saunters off toward the drop-point and Rachel hitches a smile on her lips as Santana leads Brittany and Quinn through the front doors, looking haughty and annoyed. Santana silently motions for Brittany to distract Quinn, and approaches Rachel with a scowl adorned on her face.

"I'm offended, Berry."

"You promised to kill me," Rachel points out, hands on her hips.

"I can't believe you gave me the codename 'White Rabbit'," Santana persists. "I'm a minority student. How do you know there isn't black rabbits? Or Latino rabbits? Or Chinese rabbits?"

"It correlates with the story and my plan, not racism," Rachel hisses. "It wasn't intentional."

"Whatever. I'm just yanking your chain. What's next?"

"Your job is to escort Quinn to the choir room. Puck is already there to keep them both inside."

"This plan is genius," Santana admits grudgingly before stalking off to find Brittany and Quinn.

Quinn looks a little lost as Brittany babbles about lawn gnome conspiracies until Santana returns.

"Hey, Q. Come with me."

"Okay," Quinn agrees, confused. The trio walks leisurely through the halls, which part obediently for Santana, and Quinn becomes even more bewildered along the way. The jocks have their jackets zipped up, the Cheerios are wearing unflatteringly bulky sweatshirts, and everyone seems to hide their chests from Quinn's view (not that she's looking, it's just a noticeable trend). Puck is standing outside the choir room when they arrive, whistling.

"Puck?"

"Quinn," Puck greets. Santana and Brittany hover silently behind Quinn, waiting.

"Have you seen Rachel?" Quinn asks, having not seen Santana's discussion with the diva only minutes before. "I need to talk to her."

"I think she might be practicing in there," Puck says, when the four hear the clank of piano keys.

"Oh, okay."

"I'll see you later, Quinn," Santana says, "go ahead and talk to Berry."

Quinn sidesteps Puck without further comment and goes inside, and Puck carefully locks the door from the outside.

"Give them a half hour," Santana commands, and Puck nods, grabbing a chair from an empty classroom and pulling out his Nintendo DS from his pocket.

Santana stares, and Brittany giggles.

"What? It's going to take a long time and I'll be bored," Puck insists. "Gotta play my Mario."

Santana rolls her eyes, and extends her hand to Brittany, and both disappear down the hallway.

* * *

Meanwhile, Quinn enters the choir room and is dismayed to find not Rachel Berry sitting at the piano, but a familiar blonde, far shorter and with a distinctive Southern twang to her sentences.

"You," Quinn mutters.

"Me," April Rhodes exclaims delightedly.

"Why are you here?"

"Streisand called me...or no, it was the Puckasaurus, but it was Streisand's idea," April says, and distractedly gestures to the door. "You're locked in here, Q, by the way. It's all part of the plan."

"Okay, Joker," Quinn grumbles, seeing Puck guarding the door with his back to her. "Why are you here? Since I can't leave, Rachel called you?"

"Yep. Heard through the grapevine that you've been headin' down the wrong path."

"The 'wrong path'?"

"The pills," April drawls, looking certainly as if she was restraining herself from asking for a few, but doesn't. "It's not a pleasant road, and believe me, I know 'em all. Then Santana's heard from your sister that you were downing the giggle juice. Trust me, getting hammered isn't the way to spend your time in high school. I messed up, I let myself do what's fun instead of what's right. Quinn, getting wasted and high as a kite might be a grand ole time, but when it becomes a habit, it's hard to kick it."

"Uh huh," Quinn mutters.

April sighs, patting her hand. "They called me to knock some sense into you, silly! Nobody wants you to turn out like me. At first, when the Puckerone called me up, I thought it was for a booty call. But when he explained the situation, I jumped at the chance to stop somebody from screwing up like I did."

"That's...surprisingly generous of you, Ms. Rhodes," Quinn offers.

"Call me April," April trills. "Anyway, where was I? Oh, right. Don't use drugs or alcohol when you're down in the dumps. Talk it out. Talk to somebody, anybody. Your mom, Streisand, Puckasaurus, you can even talk to me! Just don't let yourself spiral like I did when I was here."

"Okay," Quinn nods. In April's twisted way, it makes sense. And she wants to. She wants to open up, especially to Rachel, about everything. Today. Where _is_ Rachel?

"Good...and since we'll be here for another twenty minutes or so," April whispers conspiratorially. "Do you have any of those pills with you? I could use another pick-me-up."

"No, sorry."

"Then my lesson is officially learned," April applauds, pleased. "So...how's Will lately?"

"Um..."

"That man is _gorgeous_," April gushes. "I could think about him all day..."

Quinn silently counts each minute until she can escape, turning red at every inappropriate and dirty dream April recounts about Mr. Schuester.

She _really_ doesn't need to know.

* * *

_Alice officially distracted by Caterpillar. White Queen, what's next in your awful mission?_

_Excellent work. Phase One is complete._

_Berry, I swear..._

_Santana, I am merely keeping to my plan. Do not offer comments unless they are useful._

_Plan Fix-Quinn-With-Her-Favorite-Childhood-Story-and-Other-Stupid-Lame-Things?_

_Yes. Now get going, you silly Rabbit!_

_I'll punch you later. By the way, Britt is now the Rabbit. I'm picking the Queen of Hearts._

_I made a detailed Powerpoint on this! Darn it, fine...and if you must, avoid the nose._

_

* * *

_

"April Rhodes," Quinn remarks when Puck unlocks the door. Puck cracks a grin.

"April Rhodes," he muses. Quinn doesn't appear to be angry with her 'intervention' and simply appears to take it in stride.

"She explained to me all the nasty things she'd do to Mr. Schuester."

"Ouch."

"Yup," Quinn admits. "I won't be able look him in the eyes anymore. I just can't."

"She's a goddess," Puck says dreamily.

"I have to get to Chemistry. See you later?"

"Sure," Puck replies, and watches Quinn turn left down the corridor and vanish.

Dialing a number on speed dial ("I'm your fellow Jew, as you say, I deserve a speed dial") and lifting the device to his ear, Puck waits for Rachel to pick up, drumming his fingers on his knee.

"Red King," Rachel greets.

"White Queen," Puck rolls his eyes. "Honestly, this is so lame. I'm with Santana on this."

"I didn't ask for your input, Noah," Rachel chides, aloof. "Has Quinn gone to class?"

"Yeah."

"Good. Are our moles installed in the classroom?"

Puck makes his way to Quinn's classroom, where Tina sits in the back with Kurt, as both meet his eyes and nod once.

"Dodo's there, and so is...Mad Hatter?"

"Excellent. They'll get Quinn and we'll able be ready soon."

"Why is Tina called Dodo again?"

Rachel sighs heavily, like it's a personal insult. "Dodo stutters. Tina used to stutter. _Comprende_?"

"I'm failing Spanish, you know. And good choice for Hummel. All those prissy hats he wears."

"I don't care!" Rachel shouts so loud Puck blanches and holds the phone away. "Noah Puckerman, you will not ruin this for me! I worked for hours on this plan and if you mess it up, I swear to God you'll regret it! I'll tell your mother about your escapades with cougars! I'll tell your sister every swear word you utter in a lady's presence! I'll tell Rabbi Greenberg—"

"Relax, alright!" Puck hisses. "Calm the fuck down."

"That's one for Hannah," Rachel warns.

"I'm going, I'm going...where I am off to next?"

"The Cheerio copy room, and ignore Ms. Sylvester's sign on the door. Go to the computer," Rachel instructs. "When you get there, open the fake credentials I sent to your email, print them out, and file them away in the Main Office cabinet, 'Substitutes'. She'll be our 'supervisor' when we need it."

"Got it. Ten-four."

"The proper term is 'over and out', Noah. Please adhere to proper code and my guidelines."

"Over and out, for the love of God."

"NOAH!"

* * *

"It seems our gym teacher has taken a nasty fall," Figgins mutters. "We'll call a substitute."

(A nasty fall included a narrowly avoided run-in with a wheelchair bound boy, unfortunately swerving to plunge backwards down a flight of stairs, throwing out the teacher's back. Tragic.)

The secretary nods, and pulls out the first file, reading the applicant's name.

She dials the written number, and sometime later, a pretty blonde waltzes into the office, smiling.

"Hey, I'm the substitute," Amanda Fabray says brightly. "Bring on those gym classes!"

The secretary gives a rigid, disapproving smile, and hands her the attendance sheet.

"Great," Mandy exclaims. "You have a good day."

"You too," and when Mandy's already skipped out of the room, the secretary adds, "hooligan."

* * *

"How long did Rachel slave over this plan?"

Tina pauses in her notes. "A plan of this direction, meticulousness, and insanity? Four hours. Probably five. Rachel's adamant about this one. She threw herself into it."

Kurt eyes Quinn, sitting in the front of the room, dutifully paying attention to the lesson. "I see."

"She deserves it, you know," Tina muses, also looking at Quinn. "She should be happy."

"And we'll make her happy," Kurt says, and promptly stands up. "Quinn Fabray, you are a cheater!"

_Phase Two, underway_, Tina texts.

_Superb. Do you know what to do?_

_Yes. We'll get her there._

Quinn, the entire class, and the teacher whirl around in confusion.

"What?" Quinn blurts out. "Kurt, what are you talking about?"

"Mr. Hummel, what is the meaning of this?" The teacher demands.

Kurt tosses his head dramatically, and points to Quinn as if she's a fiend. "I can't stand this anymore! I saw Quinn Fabray cheat on our last Chemistry test! There! I said it!"

"What are you talking about, Hummel?" Quinn yells, red-faced. "What the actual fuck?"

"Ms. Fabray!" The teacher exclaims, as the rest of class sits, bewildered.

"Quinn, I will not help you accomplish a perfect grade with less than responsible means!" Kurt shrieks. "If you cheat on an examination, I will be forced to report it! You are a fucking liar and a bitch for even trying to! I will not keep your cheating a secret!"

"Relax, Damian," Quinn sneers. "Slow your roll."

"Both of you, stop the shenanigans this instant!"

"Stop being the Queen Bitch, Quinn!" Kurt continues in a wail. "I fucking hate you!"

"That's it, both of you to the principal's office!" The teacher commands, disgusted.

"What?" Quinn shouts. "I didn't do anything!"

"I'm not going anywhere with that whore!" Kurt screams.

"Go or I'll be forced to call security!" The teacher bellows.

Quinn rolls her eyes and stalks out, Kurt hurries after her. The teacher straightens her dress.

"Now, as I was saying, electrons can be shared between atoms in several different ways..."

Tina meekly asks to go to the bathroom and is allowed. When writing her slip, she signals the rest of her class, who nod obediently, not as 'bewildered' as they originally appeared. The person closest to the door, a Cheerio, shifts slightly, getting ready. Tina finds Kurt and Quinn in a heated discussion near the lunchroom.

"Wait, you didn't mean _any_ of that?"

"Of course not," Kurt insists breezily, unapologetic. "I had to get us out of class."

"Why?"

"We have to take you to the gym," Tina interjects, grinning. "Come on."

Before they can move, other students appear from all sides, running out of classrooms. Muffled protests from the teachers are heard over the din of laughter and yelling, and chairs are wedged under doorknobs, locking the teachers inside. Students howl gleefully and sprint as a raucous herd for the gym, and Quinn turns to Tina, mystified, while Kurt waves rudely to the trapped teachers. "What is going on, you two?"

"It's a surprise," Kurt snickers, and holds out his arm for her to take, Tina taking his other.

Quinn, utterly lost for words, sighs and interlocks their arms, where Kurt jovially escorts his two companions to their destination, which reveals to be the gym.

Tina types out a message.

_Phase Two, complete. Card soldiers are on the march to Wonderland._

_Fantastic work, Dodo._

_The Mad Hatter and I are on the move, bringing Alice as you ordered._

_Good. And Tina, I think you're the only glee club member who complies with my codenames._

_They're really fun, Rachel! Anyway, we'll see you soon! I mean, we're en route, White Queen!_

"Kurt, I couldn't help but notice your fashion faux pas," Quinn observes. "It's...not you."

Kurt picks nonexistent lint off his father's old college sweatshirt, scowling in distaste. "I know."

They reach the closed doors of the gym, where low giggles are heard. The windows are covered with paper from the inside, and Tina stores her phone safely in her pocket.

"What are we doing here?"

Kurt doesn't ask for permission before holding up a red scarf and tying it around Quinn's eyes.

"Kurt, what—"

"It wasn't my idea," he mumbles from somewhere on her right. "Now stop talking."

The gym doors creak and Quinn feels gentle hands on her back, guiding her inside the room. Tina and Kurt close the doors behind them, and two Cheerios cram chairs underneath to lock them from anyone who tries to come in. Quinn feels uneasy at the silence, and all she can hear is the squeak of dozens of sneakers on the wooden floor, light breathing, and a few nervous laughs, before quickly being silenced. Tina unties the blindfold from Quinn's eyes, and she gasps.

"What the hell?"

* * *

Emma Pillsbury is reading a pamphlet on panic attacks when Will Schuester practically trips into her room, breathing laboriously and flushed in the face. Emma tactfully ignores the potential germs her ex-fling is spreading with his panting and instead asks what happened to him to cause such an appearance.

"My kids," he gasps, "they...all, all of them...ran out, screaming, and lo-locked me in my room. I-I had to climb out my window, which was mortifying because...I fell on my ankle and had to run a-around the school to the front door...everyone's trapped in their classrooms...then I came here."

"Um...why?"

"You have to help me free everyone!" Will wheezes.

"Oh! Oh, right, okay."

Emma and Will run out of her office, pulling chairs off classrooms. They manage to free five teachers until they reach the main hallway, slide and fall together with shrieks and swears in a clustered heap on the floor.

Climbing ungainly out of the complaining dog pile, Emma leans against a wall.

"What happened?"

"Butter on the floor," a teacher growls. "Known tactic for distraction. _Damn_ it. I know exactly who did this."

"Puckerman," Will supplies tiredly.

"That kid is gonna end up in jail," another teacher adds primly. "We have a bet going."

"How about we focus instead on helping our fellow educators, okay?" Will snaps, struggling to get to his feet with the greasy floors and swollen ankle. Okay, he's annoyed with Puck too—hello, he could have thrown out his back like the idiot gym teacher, and come on, he has to dance for glee club occasionally, he's hip with it like that—but he doesn't approve of teachers insulting the people in _his_ club.

"Where's Sue?"

"Leave her," they chorus in unison without any thought, and hobble along to find other teachers.

* * *

It's a sea of students standing in the gym, smiling at her. They match, with ugly sweatshirts and hopeful expressions, and unexpectedly, she spots her sister, dressed up like a moron.

"What are you wearing?" She demands into the noiseless room. Mandy grins.

"I'm the gym teacher today!"

Mandy's wearing high socks, shorts, an obnoxious headband, and a similar sweatshirt to the rest of the assembled crowd. Beaming, she lopes over to Quinn's side and makes her sit down on an unnoticed chair, and stands on her right. Rachel steps away from the glee club corner and smiles.

"Quinn."

"Rachel?"

"We organized this gathering for you," Rachel offers.

"Screw that!" Puck calls from the side. "This was all you, Berry!"

Agreeable laughter escapes from the quiet herd, and Quinn sees dozens of nods.

"You brought everyone in here? Why?"

"For you," Rachel repeats, and turns slightly, raising her voice. "Alright, take 'em off!"

Quinn's eyes widen in confusion and alarm as the loud sound of zippers permeates the air, and the sweatshirts are tossed on the floor. Everywhere, on each and every shirt, is a large, red, _Q_, emblazoned brightly on the different types of fabric. Quinn notices some are spray painted, others are sewn on.

Rachel has her own with a regular T-shirt instead of an animal sweater, and smiles cheerfully.

"I organized this to tell you that you're not alone, Quinn," she says. "It's different from last year, you know. You were the only one pregnant, alone in whole school, and you had to deal with the taunts and insults from everyone here. But this year, we all shared an experience we'll never forget. Jacob affected all of us when he brought a gun to school," Rachel continues. "The twenty-one lost were friends, some were boyfriends and girlfriends. They were Cheerios, jocks, and some were from the AV club."

"Jacob made his home there," Santana picks up when Rachel stops. "He hurt his own friends and ours because he was so angry. He was alone—no one else would even dream of bringing a gun to school. But he was too far gone, too upset because the bullying just kept going. In some ways, consciously or unconsciously, we all let it happen. Jacob was a main center of attention, and many of us allowed it to continue because deep down, we're all scared it could be us tomorrow."

"What we trying to say, Quinn," Artie interjects, "is that it's not all of your fault."

"But it is," Quinn replies softly. "I used to run this school. All bullying was my orders."

"There's a thing called free will, or saying no," Puck counters. "We didn't have to slushie Jacob, but we did anyway. Like Santana said, it was to avoid any bullying on us."

A rumble of agreement sounds from the football and hockey teams.

"We're wearing these Q's for you, Quinn, obviously," a Cheerio who she recognizes to be named Jennifer, "and it means that we understand what you're going through. You blamed yourself for a long time now. Everyone could see you just...letting it get to you. Letting yourself give up and wallow."

Another cheerleader, Emily, chimes in: "You let Jacob get to you, get into your head and mess you up. You know how Coach Sylvester makes us read _The Art of War_? You didn't remember chapter six: weak points. Jacob knew your weak spot was blaming yourself after he insulted you and threatened Rachel's life. He said that it was all of your fault, and seeing him shoot himself cemented the deal. His death led you to believe you were the sole cause of it."

"Yeah," Mike adds. "If you said no, he would have killed Rachel and then you'd have a real reason to be blamed. Then he would have done the same thing, regardless of what he said. Killing everyone he could, Rachel, and then killing himself, it was perfect to set up the blame on your shoulders. You'd be the only survivor in that room, and if the tape got out, it'd make you look bad for not stopping it."

"Basically," Puck calls impatiently, feeling the need to simplify the conversation, "he was out for revenge, and used you as the scapegoat for the bullying here. By singling you out, you actually started to believe him, and you managed to forget that you didn't do about any bullying in those nine months aside from the Glist."

"Which is why we're starting a campaign for McKinley," Rachel says, and nods to two football players near the bleachers. Picking something off the floor, the two boys walk away from each other, extending a banner to show signatures crammed and squished into any available space.

"It's a pledge to stop bullying," Rachel amends. "We all signed it. Other schools around the country have similar agreements. Mostly, they're successful."

"That doesn't mean we won't have disagreements," Kurt says.

"Or arguments with opposite cliques, because those aren't going away," Santana adds.

"But we will try to be better," David Karofsky promises. "No more slushies."

"Or swirlies," another boy cuts in.

"Rumors have to say, though," Santana interrupts again. "Sorry everyone, but they have to. We'll all get bored without 'em."

"Throwing makeup down the toilet is out too," Brittany nods. "And no more drawings, Quinn!"

Quinn turns crimson as snickers from the girls are quickly muffled. Rachel's also embarrassed.

"I scribbled those out," Quinn squeaks, red as a tomato.

"Just don't do anymore," Brittany warns sternly. "They're really bad pictures of Rachel."

"No problem, Britt," Quinn replies hastily, and feels Mandy's curious gaze on her face.

"She's blushing," Puck yells. "I want to see these pictures!"

"Okay," Rachel claps pointedly amidst laughter, "We have a song to perform!"

* * *

The glee club and the band shuffle hurriedly from the side—fearing Rachel's impatience and probable threat of embarrassment she would befall to the slowest parties—so they're standing about ten feet away in front her, and the rest of the school moves in a collective mass, splitting to both sides of the gym. Most wander to sit on the bleachers, as Mandy remains at Quinn's side. Finn steps to the front of the club, smiling sweetly that it makes Quinn think of simpler days, when Finn was her adorable, obedient and dimwitted king and they ruled McKinley with intimidation from her and golden boy charm from him. A monarchy, Quinn realizes. Or a tyranny.

As she watches the band set up to play, and further away, sees Becky Jackson in the middle of a jock collection, the six boys around her smiling genuinely at her when she's talking, and also sees Lauren Zizes in an intense discussion with a few Cheerios about the pros and cons of reading _Twilight_, Quinn internally admits that maybe she and Santana and even Sue were wrong in the first place about high school. It shouldn't be a monarchy or oligarchy, it should be a democracy.

(For her to then remember that America essentially was a democracy already made her 'epiphany' a little less revolutionary and a lot more obvious. She digresses. Whoever originally believed high school to be a safe place to learn was stupid. But as Rachel said, Jacob's mistake affected them all, creating the democracy that should have existed at McKinley all along.)

"This one's for you, Quinn," Finn interrupts her musings, and nods to the band.

A familiar tune starts, and Quinn successfully manages to suppress an eyeroll—_Just the Way You Are, _charming, really—and sends Santana a look of death and a firm step on Mandy's foot, who's quietly grinning. Finn leads the club in a soulful, perfect rendition, all wearing happy, satisfied smiles. Rachel's glowing with pride—at her achievement and superior planning, no doubt—and holds Quinn's eyes as the song progresses, and Quinn knows without asking that she and Rachel are okay.

The song ends and Quinn and the entire gym applauds, and Quinn doesn't even realize she's crying until Rachel, having made her way over, brushes away a few tears and holds her hand.

* * *

"They're...singing," Emma breathes to the dumbstruck army of teachers, all freshly freed from their classrooms.

"Why?"

"It's all for Quinn Fabray," Emma says, and Will's smile almost looks painful, he's so pleased.

"The entire school's in there," Will replies with his ear against the door, listening to the clapping.

"Shouldn't we let them out?" A teacher demands, but the rest shake their heads.

"No," Will answers. "Let them be. Let's all get a coffee, huh?"

With a final shake of his head, Will follows the partially disgruntled and surprised group of teachers to the teacher's lounge, leaving the students to their tribute to Quinn.

* * *

"Finally," Rachel calls over the noise, and the room quiets submissively. "David Karofsky has something to share."

Quinn's eyebrows nearly vanish into her hairline as Karofsky climbs the stage.

Her gaze finds his and he gives a tiny, imperceptible nod, his skin white and looking only a little panicky. She gapes—he's...telling? Everyone?

Karofsky extracts an index card from his jacket, and holds the microphone, slightly unsteadily.

"Hey," he says nervously.

"Hello," Becky Jackson replies automatically into the silence.

"Hi, Dave," Brittany adds from Santana's side, beaming.

"Yo! Karofsky!" A football player yells.

"It's the Fury!" Another boy shouts, and laughter erupts but fades quickly.

When Karofsky sees Quinn's soothing wave from her seat, he relaxes a little, but his anxiety doesn't leave entirely.

"I wanted to...explain a few things...about me," Karofsky admits, and in Quinn's eyes—(maybe Brittany's too, who is oblivious or uncaring to calling the boy by his surname)—becomes Dave from yesterday. "I, uh...haven't been myself lately...since the shooting. It really got to me, like it must've everyone else, stupid idea...uh, it got me thinking about what's going on with me. What I've been...not admitting."

Dave shifts his weight a bit, and glances down at his card.

"I lost my friend, Azimio Adams, that day," Dave says shakily. "It's been a hard time without him...I've known him since I was ten and we were practically brothers...we told each other everything. I...I told Azimio something the day Jacob...shot everyone and I felt like it was my fault, besides the fact that I used to bully him," Dave states, and his eyes, pleadingly, look to Quinn for help, who nods.

Quinn rises from her seat, ignoring Mandy and the glee club's gazes, and stands next to Dave, placing a hand on his forearm. Dave holds the microphone away and mutters something in Quinn's ear, who nods again, smiling encouragingly, and Dave continues with his speech.

"I told Azimio that day that...that I was gay," Dave blurts out. "Because I am. I'm gay."

Kurt promptly falls back into Sam's bewildered arms, shocked, Mandy and Brittany nod (they knew this already), the Cheerios are either surprised or speechless, the jocks are wary and impassive, and Quinn hears Rachel muttering with Kurt, both flabbergasted that their gaydars are 'broken'. Quinn tightens her grip on Dave's forearm, who struggles to find his nerve again in a school known for mocking those like himself, something he used to partake in.

"I thought God was punishing me," Dave offers sadly into the silence. "I thought, because I admitted it to myself and Azimio, that my best friend died because of me. I was raised, like Quinn here. We went to the same church and were brought up to view homosexuality as a sin and a choice, not a faultless orientation. But then I realized that God doesn't punish, he loves. God wouldn't send Jacob to hurt us all—Jacob chose to do that, Jacob chose to murder all those kids. I do take responsibility for the bullying I did to Jacob, but I no longer believe the fact that I am gay to have contributed to the shootings."

Quinn gives him a smile when he looks at her, and she isn't surprised to see Dave relieved.

"Anyway," Dave continues, placing the microphone is its holder, holding Quinn's hand with his right and holding the index card in his left, "I told you all that because of the pledge. I hope the bullying is really gone and that I won't be treated differently because I'm gay. It's still me. And I also made a list of the people I hurt and slushied...so if I forget you and your name isn't on here, I promise you can slushie me too and step on the Fury if you really wanted to."

Quinn snickers amongst the quiet laughter, and Dave squints at the card.

"Quinn, sorry for slushing you that one time and calling you names that had to do with being pregnant...Hummel, Evans, I'm sorry for all those gay jokes—there a little hypocritical now, I guess—Brittany, sorry for calling you stupid more than three times...Santana, I'm sorry for calling you, um, really offensive names like 'woman working the corner' and 'Carmen Sandiego'..."

Quinn lets go of his hand while Dave Karofsky keeps going, emboldened with his apologies. Students Quinn passes are mollified and impressed with the confessing jock. Walking back to her seat, Mandy pats her hand approvingly and Rachel eyes her before leaning down to whisper in the blonde's ear, unintentionally making her shiver.

"That was very admirable of you, Quinn Fabray," Rachel says. "But now, can we talk?"

"Yes," Quinn replies with conviction. "I'm ready."

* * *

They find a secluded part of the gym, and sit down against the wall. Dave's already done talking, and his hockey friends—astoundingly, at least in Quinn's opinion of Lima's prejudices—are clapping him on the back like he's won a big game. It's not completely picture-perfect; three hockey players and several Cheerios have turned their noses and looked away, but don't dare say anything. At least Dave will get some form of acceptance. You can't win them all, Quinn muses thoughtfully.

"About yesterday..." She hedges.

"You shouldn't worry, Quinn," Rachel interrupts. "I knew you were just upset."

"I am sorry, though," Quinn insists. "I had no right to push you. If you don't want a relationship, I shouldn't ask for one. It's obvious you just wanted to help me, that's all."

"But I—"

"Anyway," Quinn begins, ignorant to Rachel's distress and impatience, "I want to talk about everything."

"Everything?" Rachel wonders, temporarily skipping the 'relationship' discussion.

"Yes."

They do. Quinn starts from the beginning, her own childhood, feeling it necessary to emphasize her way of thinking and how it started. She explains her father's strict parenting, complied with her mother's inability to intervene due to blinding love for her husband, fear of her husband's influence and wrath, and the urge to drink her troubles away. Quinn adds how she used to envy her sister for being braver than she and 'escaping' their family for college quicker than she herself could. Quinn moves on to high school, describing the automatic 'necessity' to become popular, which included insulting Rachel to avoid the spotlight on any of her hidden imperfections (Rachel nods at this, understanding, knowing already how sincerely sorry Quinn is about it) and how Cheerios provided a safety net of protection from slushies and other ridicule.

In regards to her pregnancy, Quinn explains how difficult bridging the gap between herself and other teenagers was. She, like other girls who become pregnant, had to grow up faster, which isolated her from idle teens and their silly mistakes. She learned to be more careful, but not quickly enough. Being more mature than other students at McKinley didn't make her stop the bullying altogether, so it essentially was too little, too late when Jacob brought the gun to school that day.

After the shooting, Quinn tells Rachel of how harder it was to assimilate into normality again. How could anyone expect a witness of such a horrific, awful sight to jump back into a schedule without feeling negativity and hopelessness in their heart? Quinn enforces the choice to use the Vitamin D pills—she just wanted to learn how to get back to a routine while skipping the coping and moping period. It was a hasty decision and poorly thought out, but Quinn did usually ignore her own problems.

"Why couldn't you speak with anyone?"

(Rachel leaves out the _me_ in her question.)

"I just...couldn't. It was like a wall was built up. I'm only saying all of this now because it's easier to admit everything all at once," Quinn answers. "Think of a dam, and then think of the dam breaking, and all the water rushing out because it's finally free and can run steady. That's how I felt."

Quinn later apologizes for her repeated rebuffs of Rachel and Leroy, because she avoided her issues and instead focused on keeping them underwraps, hoping they would eventually go away.

"They wouldn't have."

"What?"

"Gone away," Rachel clarifies. "They would've stayed inside you and distorted you from the inside out until you were more bitter and angry than you are now. Talking helps."

"It does," Quinn agrees, and continues.

She still isn't better, but talking about everything leading to this point—growing up to high school to post shooting to a student organized assembly on stopping bullying—makes her feel freer, lighter. Rachel simply listens patiently and silently, and Quinn keeps going, talking about anything she can think of that relates to her situation, especially hopes for the future. When she's done talking about the shooting, she explains how her feelings for Rachel (to be listened without judgment, and she misses the frustration on Rachel's face) manifested in summertime and only grew stronger as the months passed.

"I know you've read about relationships not working because of shared traumas," Quinn says. "But I want you to know that if you ever wanted to be with me, I'd just...you know, wait in the wings. McKinley has apparently dropped the bullying, so I'm sure it would have been okay. But I expect you're probably waiting on Finn," the blonde concludes a little wistfully.

"Why would I do that?"

"I thought...you chased Finn forever," Quinn returns, puzzled. "Haven't you waited long enough to get back together with him?"

"Yes, and then we broke up a few months ago because he chose popularity," Rachel answers impatiently. "God, Quinn, you're so dense sometimes. I don't want Finn."

"What, why?"

Rachel rolls her eyes, like she's praying for patience, and uses her kissing method, which ultimately fails.

"I wasn't nervous," Quinn tells her quizzically when Rachel's leaned away, ignoring the fact she liked it, yet again.

"I just told you that you're incredibly dense, and no, I don't want Finn, I want you!" Rachel nearly shouts, looking disgruntled. "Did getting drunk lower your intelligence?"

"Santana tell you that?"

"Yes. She told me that. Quinn, please use proper grammar next time. Secondly, I want you, not him."

"I heard that point," Quinn insists. "But you said you didn't know yesterday. How on earth did you figure it out in twenty-four hours?"

Rachel slaps her own forehead, and exhales deeply.

"Well, now I do."

"Honestly, I think you need more time."

"Honestly, Quinn, I think you need a brain transplant."

"Well, if you are saying that you do want to be with me," Quinn says, leaning over to kiss Rachel before pulling away, "then you feel something when we kiss, right?"

"Yes," Rachel exclaims indignantly. "I do, obviously. I like you. Are you sure you haven't gotten a blow to the head?"

"Don't think so," Quinn replies, grinning. "I just said most of that to make you angry."

Rachel fumes and refuses to speak for a few minutes, unless to mumble offensive phrases under her breath, and Quinn meets Santana, Mandy, Kurt, Sam, and surprisingly, Dave's eyes from all the way across the gym, who are all snickering and imitating her dopey grin and Rachel's irritated expression.

Quinn rolls her eyes and pokes Rachel's hip, who squeals and bats her hand away.

"Done sulking?"

"I was not 'sulking', Quinn."

"Okay, whatever you say."

"Before you make me any more annoyed that I already am," Rachel growls, "I wanted to say that first, you are one of the most frustrating people I have ever met, Quinn Fabray, and next, I would like to try having a relationship with you as long as you tell me everything and we take it slow."

"Why didn't you just say that?"

Rachel isn't amused.

* * *

By the time everyone clears the school—their mindset was that they skipped a few classes, might as well go home—the glee club and Mandy are the only ones left in the gym. The teachers are still mingling in the lounge, and Rachel and Quinn are talking enthusiastically with the others.

"Operation was a success," Rachel announces, and immediately accepts Tina's high five.

"What operation?" Quinn demands. "The one where Kurt insulted me in Chemistry?"

Kurt turns pink and Rachel huffs.

"He had to get you out of class. But he might've gotten out of control a bit."

"Out of control?" Puck scoffs. "_He_ didn't assign codenames."

"Yeah, White Queen," Santana remarks. "Imbecile."

"White Queen?" Quinn repeats, confused.

"Berry picked your favorite book," Santana explains irritably. "Your codename was Alice."

"You picked _Alice in Wonderland_?" Quinn questions adoringly at Rachel, who blushes. Mandy snickers.

"Good God," Santana grumbles. "I'm getting a cavity at this sugar sweetness."

"Maybe we can go to Carl the dentist!" Brittany cheers. "Ms. Pillsbury's dating him!"

"Sure, Britt."

Kurt draws Sam away from the group, a lingering question on his mind.

"You meant gaydar as something of mine that works," Kurt declares, smirking. "Didn't you?"

"Caught on to that, finally?" Sam questions, laughing. "Good."

"Have I mentioned I love you and your dorky riddles?"

"Of course you have."

"Excellent," Kurt grins. He indicates Rachel and Quinn, having also stepped away from the club and Mandy, the two whispering quietly, each wearing slightly goofy expressions. "Who do you think is going to drop the L bomb first?"

"Quinn," Sam guesses.

"Rachel," Kurt says.

Their eyes narrow, and a bet is quickly ordered.

(Kurt wins.)

* * *

Judy, Leroy, Shelby, and Hiram are all thrilled and only slightly surprised to find out their daughters are dating, but enthusiasm over the match is abundant and constant, along with Mandy's offensive gestures and lewd suggestions that could rival Puck's (it didn't help that they flirted at McKinley a few times until Quinn urged repeatedly about stretch marks and the gigantic age difference, making Mandy nauseated and back off), her goal at making all parties uncomfortable for her own amusement prevailing daily.

Quinn threatens to reveal something about Mandy at a summer camp. Her sister shuts up quick.

Quinn helps Rachel through physical therapy when her cast is finally removed, and the diva is immensely pleased and relieved with her recovery.

When confronted with the delicate situation about Beth, Quinn only requests that her daughter t0 be informed of her adoption when she's truly ready. Shelby agrees. Otherwise, Quinn's considered an affectionate acquaintance while Rachel is assumed into her sisterly role. It's a strange setup, but Quinn hopes Beth will someday understand it.

When Mr. Schuester and the glee club remember Sectionals is dangerously close ("How could I forget?" Rachel wails), they hop to work and the concentration of being perfect is both tiring and worth it. Quinn and Rachel practice in Quinn's room, and spend the rest of their time talking. Quinn's learning the habit of telling Rachel anything that makes her feel down, and in turn, Rachel makes her feel better about herself and assures her that she'll be okay eventually.

It's not an easy journey, but Rachel becomes Quinn's sole confidante, with some general talks with Santana and a few with Leroy, for second and third opinions and friend and psychiatrist opinions, respectively. While Leroy and Santana get watered down versions of Quinn's feelings, leaving them searching blindly in the confusing maze for a solution that they'll find with a lucky break, Rachel is the one who can navigate the darkness instantly, understand Quinn the most, finding the way to soothe Quinn's feelings just as easily as Ariadne of Greek mythology, finding her way out of the center of Daedalus's Labyrinth with her string.

They've come a long way from the first shots and the library. Quinn hears them in her nightmares occasionally, which have become few and far-between, but is helped by Rachel's presence. If she knows Rachel is around and nearby (preferably her bed, hint), her dreams are always calm and tranquil, not dark nor brooding.

Quinn allows Santana to be Head Cheerio. The chance of repeating her mistakes is high when on the squad, so she doesn't rejoin Cheerios. Sue understands.

Quinn's standing near her cue to duck under the curtain at Sectionals to begin a duet with Sam, she's shocked by a hand on her arm, only to calm down at seeing Rachel.

"Are you supposed to—"

"I wanted to give a confidence boost," Rachel smiles, kisses her once, and says, "I love you."

Quinn manages to reply with a genuine and truthful, gushing I-love-you of her own before Rachel dashes back to her place, beaming and skipping, and when Quinn steps out to start her verse with Sam, who's smiling radiantly at her, she knows everything will be okay. She'll eventually be free of Jacob's hold, and the memories will fade from their sharp, frightening clarity. She'll eventually talk out all of her residual fears and move on to a brighter future, luckily with Rachel at her side. She just has to be patient.

* * *

**I'm a little sad to this end, it was so fun to write. Look out for more of my stories, if you please! :)**


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